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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655801">Bad Moon Rising</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark'>RedTeamShark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Attempted Murder, Child Abuse, Consent Issues (see notes), Crossdressing, Depression, Domestic Violence, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Genital Mutilation (Discussed/Referenced), Gun Violence, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Misogynistic Slurs, Murder (Discussed), Offscreen OFC Death, Offscreen OMC Death, Offscreen OMC Suicide, Other, Paranoia, Past Abusive Relationship (Discussed), Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prescription Drug Abuse, Prostitution, Racism (Implied), Secret Identity, Sex Trafficking (Discussed), Sexual Violence (Discussed/Implied), Stalking (Discussed), Suicide, Suicide (Reference), Undercover, attempted child murder, code names, watersports (mentioned)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:54:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,983</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I hear the voice of rage and ruin.</i>
</p><p>Philadelphia may be known as The City of Brotherly Love, but it's anything but love that causes paths to cross. Cops and killers, hookers and headliners, and not a trustworthy soul among them. Everyone has something they're hiding, but how devoted to their deadly secrets they are--that's the real push, isn't it? How far is one person willing to go to get what they want, and is it farther than another will go to get what they need?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton &amp; Natasha Romanov, Jack Rollins &amp; Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov &amp; Brock Rumlow, Natasha Romanov &amp; Tony Stark, Steve Rogers &amp; Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Some different stuff for this work than my usual completed works:</p><p>Tags will update with each new chapter, aside from general tags like genre, and will be listed in the notes at the beginning of the chapter every week. Where appropriate and necessary, I'll also list content warnings (specifically if a chapter hits on anything under the archive's Big Four or close to it).</p><p>--</p><p>Let's get Real Life for a second here and acknowledge the state of the US and the widespread protests about police brutality (especially against the Black community) currently going on. At the time that I wrote this story (February 2020), police brutality against the Black community was not being covered by the mainstream media to the same degree as it is right now (June 2020). That's not to say it didn't exist, because systemic racism is what America was built on, but the tone of this story may... clash with current feelings towards law enforcement. Author intent is never to harm, but I understand if you don't want to read something that glorifies cops to any degree.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Prostitution, Misogynistic Slurs, Watersports (Mentioned), Offscreen/Implied Character Death (OFC)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was too cold for hooking on street corners, but fucking Devin believed in doing things the <em> old fashioned </em> way. She huffed another visible breath, glancing at the mostly empty roads. Kate had taken off with a john in a pick up truck, probably to her favorite vacant lot, and that left Chrissy on her own out here for at least half an hour. She spared one more look at her phone, slipping it into her jacket pocket before dropping the jacket onto a crate in the alleyway. She’d either pick up a john or freeze her nips off.</p><p>The car that rolled up five minutes later was sleek and dark, tinted windows all the way around and shining chrome--not typical for this part of town. Chrissy folded her arms under her chest, lifting her breasts slightly in her thin top and waiting until the window rolled down to step closer. She could feel the warmth in the car, involuntary gooseflesh tightening her skin on her entire upper body as the smell of new leather wafted over her on the warm air.</p><p>“You lookin’ for a fun time, handsome?”</p><p>“How much?” The tinted windows kept his face in shadows, but she’d been at this long enough to know some things about a john just from how they drove up. Businessman, probably married to a beautiful woman who spent their money on sweaters for her little dog. Probably would fuck her and call her the sorts of degrading names he couldn’t call his wife; the rich fucks that drove around looking for tail instead of hiring legitimate escorts were all into that. She’d tried escorting once, but the first time a man had offered her a grand to piss on him she’d decided she wasn’t enough of a freak for that world and gone crawling back to Devin. Literally crawling.</p><p>So, Mr. All Business would be able to pay enough that she could maybe sneak over to the 24 hour diner after he got his rocks off and get herself a hot coffee. If she timed it right, Kate would be back and gone again and not rat her out to Devin for taking a break.</p><p>“A hundred for a suck, two hundred for a fuck, four hundred and you can have me the rest of the night.”</p><p>“Four hundred? You’re a pretty cheap whore.”</p><p>Yeah, exactly the kind of asshole that was going to get off on calling her a slut and a whore and a cunt and blow his load in less than five minutes, then leave her in the sleazy by-the-hour hotel room. Maybe he’d stuff a tip between her tits, she’d had plenty of men do that before. Chrissy stayed quiet, waited, and after a moment he held one hand across the car with four crisp new hundred dollar bills in it. “Get in.”</p><p>The dome light didn’t come on when she opened the door, leaving her new john’s face still a mystery. She stuffed the money into the miniscule pocket of her shorts, relishing in the warm interior of the car for a moment. “I got a hotel that we can go to, won’t cost you no extra, I have a deal with’em.” Guys like Mr. All Business usually liked her to play dumb. She was good at that.</p><p>“Nah, I know a place.” His hand settled on her thigh as he drove, his palm warm and calloused. “You working alone tonight, slut?”</p><p>That wasn’t the typical question a Mr. All Business asked. They also rarely ‘knew a place.’ Chrissy heard the dull warning siren go off in the back of her mind. If he roughed her up Devin wouldn’t be too mad, but if he made it so she couldn’t work, she’d catch hell. “S’just you and me now, sweetheart, so what’s it matter?”</p><p>He hummed thoughtfully at that, his hand rubbing up and down the exposed skin of her thigh, fingers just brushing the hem of her shorts. “Don’t suppose it does. No one cares what happens to whores.”</p><p>The warning sirens were a lot louder this time. She glanced at the door as the car passed under a traffic light, the green easily highlighting the biggest red flag she’d ever seen.</p><p>There was no handle on the inside.</p><p>“Mister, listen, I ain’t out here lookin’ for trouble--”</p><p>“I know, slut. You’re just looking for a good fuck. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you need.” His hand was still on her thigh and she could feel herself shaking against him. Her fingernails dug into the leather of the seat.</p><p>“Don’t hurt me.” It was just the two of them in the car, but it still took a moment for Chrissy to realize that the high, desperate whisper had come from her own mouth. She was breathing fast and still feeling like she wasn’t getting enough air, the car’s warmth quickly gone from welcoming to stifling.</p><p>In a flash of oncoming headlights, she saw Mr. All Business smile, sharp and dangerous. His hand squeezed her thigh briefly. “I don’t hurt people.”</p><p>“Then--”</p><p>“But unlucky for you, whores aren’t people.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Offscreen Character Death (Minor OFC), Sexual Violence (discussed/implied), Genital Mutilation (discussed/referenced), Suicide (Offscreen; Minor OMC), Rape (Referenced), Past Abusive Relationship (Discussed), Stalking (Discussed), Homophobic Slurs.</p><p>*Note the use of "Minor" when describing characters refers to their status in the story (minor character vs major character), not their age. Everyone is over the age of 18 unless otherwise noted.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natalie Rushman almost lost her lunch on her first vic.</p><p>Brock Rumlow couldn’t blame her, really. This was a rough one, worse than if the body had just been dumped. Someone had done a real number on her face with something sharp, and between her legs…</p><p>Well, he’d seen a lot of fucked up shit in his life, but that was new. He clapped Rushman lightly on the back of the neck. “If you’re gonna hurl, do it between the car and the curtain. Don’t taint the evidence and don’t give the beat guys something to rag you about from now until the day you retire.”</p><p>“Thanks.” She swallowed, glanced at the body again, shuddered, before squaring her shoulders. “I’m good.”</p><p>Brock let her go, moving closer and crouching down, using the pen from his jacket pocket to brush the hair back from the victim’s neck. “Ligature strangulation.” He shrugged his coat off, laying it across the nude form and bowing his head for a second.</p><p>“Sir--” One of the forensics people stepped forward and Brock shot them a glance. “The chain of evidence…”</p><p>“I’ll fill out the paperwork about it. It isn’t right to leave the poor girl exposed like that until the ME gets here for the autopsy.” He held a hand out and after a moment the forensics person seemed to get it, handing him a sterile blue glove. Brock slid it on, frowning. “You get all the facial pictures?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Good.” He closed her wide eyes, standing up again and moving back to Rushman. “So, rookie, what do you see?”</p><p>“Female victim, probably eighteen to twenty-five, found nude in the trash. Says the killer doesn’t care about her, saw her as something to use and throw away.”</p><p>“Positioned deliberately to be found, though. And the level of violence and post-mortem mutilation suggests a level of anger that could be personal.”</p><p>Rushman looked at him, her lips pursing for a moment. “Do we know who she was?”</p><p>“They’re running her photo and prints through the database now. No ID found on the body means she could have been transient, but take a look at this.” He stepped closer again, using his gloved hand to turn the victim’s palm down. “Acrylic nails, indicates the means and motivation to take care of herself at least somewhat.”</p><p>“Prostitute?” Rushman guessed, kneeling down as Brock put her hand back.</p><p>“Most likely. They’ll probably get a ping on her prints, most of the corner gals have been through the system at least once. We should have a name by the end of the week and no further information for the foreseeable future.” He stood up, taking the glove off and tossing it into the biohazard bag by the forensics van. “Hell of a first day for ya.”</p><p>“My first day in Portland a drunk guy threw up down the front of my blues and ruined my favorite bra.”</p><p>Brock laughed at that, low and gentle. It didn’t look good to the media, the special detectives laughing around the victim. “You’ll fit in fine here. Come on, let’s go look important and save the media from having to talk to Burke.”</p><p>They ducked to the other side of the curtain, faces somber for the cameras. Brock fielded the questions, stating that there would be a press call as soon as they had information. “For now, all I can tell you is that we’ll be sharing information as it becomes prudent to do so.”</p><p>“Is it true that this is the fifth murder this year with an aspect of sexual violence to it?” one female reporter pressed, shoving her recorder  towards him. Brock took a moment to look her up and down, his face carefully blank. Beside him, Rushman went tense.</p><p>“We will be sharing information as it becomes prudent to do so.”</p><p>Her dark eyes held his for a beat longer and he fought to keep his face neutral. Some poor girl was dead not ten feet away, and these fucking vultures wanted to peck apart her story. They’d drop it as soon as they learned her career choice, too. Even the carrion birds were too classy to care about sex workers.</p><p>He and Rushman got into the squad car, shutting the doors and sitting back. Brock grabbed the laptop, pulling up the necessary reports.</p><p>“You lose a lot of jackets at crime scenes?” Rushman asked in the quiet and he started, giving a small, guilty chuckle.</p><p>“A few. I just… I know protocol, I know the ME is going to put that jacket into ‘possessions of deceased’ and it’ll be a bitch and a half to get it back, but… It’s hard to just leave someone like that. Feels disrespectful. The chief’s ripped me up one side and down the other for it more than once, but…” He shrugged. “If me giving a girl who had that happen to her a little modesty is the worst thing I do in a day, I can still sleep at night.”</p><p>Her mouth curved into a little smile, Rushman’s eyes on him for a moment. “You’re not half as much of a bastard as my transfer liaison said you’d be.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m twice as much of a bastard as anyone here dares to say I am. But only to people who deserve it. You work hard and keep honest and we won’t have any problems, Rushman.”</p><p>“Natalie. I’ll do my best.”</p><p>He took her hand, shook it briefly. “Brock. Welcome to Philly PD sex crimes. It’s a hell of a ride.”</p>
<hr/><p>There was a ping on his computer just as Brock was getting ready to call it a night and he sighed, dropping back into his chair. Notification from Forensics, better than a notice from CSI at least. “Hey, Rushman, they got an ID on our girl from this afternoon.”</p><p>Natalie’s quiet footsteps joined him at his desk, her hand planting on a blank space on the surface to read over his shoulder. “Christina Ann Wolcott, 22, brought in on a solicitation charge less than a month ago. Arresting officer Jack Rollins.”</p><p>“Looks like someone posted her bail, but surprise, she never went to her court date.” Brock shook his head, looking at the arrest pictures. “Hopefully they use these instead of the crime scene photos when they ask her family to ID her.”</p><p>“If she has family in the area. Bail was posted by her roommate, apparently.” Natalie shook her head, stepping back.</p><p>“Yeah, her roommate at a women’s shelter. That ain’t a home address. You see it a lot with the corner gals, unfortunately. One gets arrested, their pimp sends another to bail her out with the that’s my sister, cousin, roommate story. They list their address as a church or a shelter, never show up for court, and usually end up out of the city before we can get a warrant together. Poor girl should have skipped town sooner.” He closed down the file, standing up and grabbing his keys off the desk. “Come on, it’s been a long enough day. No one’s going to come forward with information about her tonight. I could use a beer, you?”</p><p>“I think I could go for something a little stronger than a beer, if I’m being honest.”</p><p>He liked Natalie Rushman, Brock decided as they walked out of the precinct. She was no slouch. Couldn’t replace his last partner, maybe, but most of his attitude with Internal Affairs about getting a new partner had been for the sake of his reputation, anyways.</p>
<hr/><p>“So,” Brock started once they had drinks in front of them, the noise of the bar drowning out their conversation. Mostly off duty cops, the precinct building was only a block away, but also a decent handful of blue collar types who stayed out later than most. “What brings Natalie Rushman into the Philly PD Sex Crimes Division?”</p><p>She took a sip of her vodka tonic, one neat red eyebrow raising slightly. “Promise not to laugh?”</p><p>“Scout’s honor.” He held up his right hand, middle three fingers together.</p><p>“Had to get away from an ex boyfriend. He wanted to play white picket fence, leave me at home having kids while he was the breadwinner. Our disagreement about that was… thorough.” She shrugged, taking another sip of her drink. “I had taken some extra training classes to start specializing because my supervisor said I had potential to make detective. Sex Crimes grabbed my attention, looked like somwehere I could actually help. Between the qualifications and the fight, when the offer to transfer to Philly came up, I took it.” Natalie laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear quickly. “Left my ex with my engagement ring and a note that said don’t find me.”</p><p>Brock shook his head, taking another swallow from his beer. “I don’t know how rewarding you’ll find it. You and me are the whole division, and most of our cases go cold within a month. It’s a lot of trying to talk to people who don’t trust cops in the slightest.”</p><p>“That’s the other reason I transferred. Your last partner was also male, right? You might find that people are more willing to open up to a woman, even if she’s a cop.”</p><p>His last partner had decided to go into early retirement via his service pistol. Brock shrugged noncommittally. “Morrison had a way with people that I definitely don’t, but even he couldn’t get much out of the girls on the corners. If you can do better, I’m glad to have you with me.”</p><p>They drank in silence for a time, letting the ebb and flow of the crowd around them fill the void. There was plenty more Brock could ask her about, plenty of questions swimming in his head, but she’d somehow managed to find the exact topic to shut him up. He didn’t like talking about Morrison. Didn’t like thinking about what had happened to him.</p><p>It was for the greater good, but it still left him feeling slimy. They’d been looking into a ring of home invasion sexual assaults, chasing their tails mostly. The media was ripping into them and the chief refused to let the FBI in to help. Finally their perp had gotten unlucky, had had a husband come home while in the middle of an attack and gotten his brains splattered across the ceiling.</p><p>Except it wasn’t their guy and it wasn’t just any husband. Morrison’s wife, his high school sweetheart, had been cheating on him after almost twenty years together. He’d killed her lover. She’d left town not long after. Somehow the story stayed out of the papers. </p><p>Morrison took his service pistol between his teeth before he could drink himself to death.</p><p>And none of <em> that </em> was okay, but then they’d covered it up, said it was a gang related activity and introduced a new law that cracked down harder on the gangs, that let the police be more brutal with less questions. Morrison’s funeral had been a hell of a show. His wife hadn’t bothered to come.</p><p>“So,” Natalie broke into his thoughts and Brock sat up straighter, taking a drink. “What brought you into sex crimes?”</p><p>He shook his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “It ain’t a happy story.”</p><p>“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”</p><p>“Nah, you’ll hear it sooner or later.” He finished his beer, waved the waitress down for another one. “I got a girl that's a close friend, was always looking out for her when we were growing up. Went off in the army when I turned 18 and she started getting mixed up with the kinda people I warned her about. One of’em didn’t take too kindly to it when she broke up with him, started ranting and raving about how he was gonna beat her, fuck her up, make her so no other man’d want her. Real charming guy.” He shook his head quickly. “She was scared to walk to the corner store alone, called the cops six or eight times because he was circlin’ the block in his car, and they didn’t do shit. They finally filed a police report after he beat her so bad she went to the hospital. I came home on leave to see her, offered to show him what it felt like, but she said to let the system take care’a him. And the system?” Brock snorted. “They didn’t do shit. How safe do you think she felt, with him still out there? What’s a restraining order but a piece of paper when the asshole shows up at your work and follows you on your walk home. My turn in the army was almost done, I put in for the police academy as soon as I could. Decided I wasn’t gonna let assholes like that roam the streets if I could help it.”</p><p>She finished her drink quickly, setting her glass aside and giving him a small smile. “You care about people.”</p><p>“I guess. Wanna protect the people that can’t always protect themselves.”</p><p>“It’s a good philosophy.” She stood up smoothly, stretching her arms over her head. “Better call it a night, though. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”</p><p>Brock raised his half-empty beer to her with a nod. “I’ll be done in a few, yeah. You take care of yourself, Natalie.” He watched her pay her tab and leave, watched out the window as she walked away down the street, cell phone in hand. After she was gone from sight, he finished his beer and stood, joining a pair of men at a corner booth.</p><p>“I doubt we’ll be able to buy her,” Brock announced, pouring himself a drink from the pitcher the table was sharing. “Seems completely clean.”</p><p>Jack Rollins snorted lightly. “So what’s she doing in your department?”</p><p>“Trying to help people and getting away from an ex.”</p><p>Charlie Tolvey’s head shot up, his bright green eyes intense. “Boyfriend or girlfriend?”</p><p>“Boyfriend.”</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m fucking positive, Tolvey. She’s not a dyke.”</p><p>He grumbled, passing a crumpled twenty dollar bill to Jack. “I was still right about Martinez.”</p><p>“Your gaydar is impressively bad, kid.” Brock took a long drink, shaking his head. “She still shouldn’t be a problem, I made it pretty clear that people don’t willingly talk to us if they’ve got arrest records, and most of the whores do. As long as the wheels keep turning like they have been, Fury’ll have no grounds for calling in the FBI. Besides, who gives a shit about some dead hookers, right? Probably their pimps that did it.”</p><p>That got a round of laughs from the table, glasses clinking together briefly.</p><p>“Speaking of hookers… You game for the police department’s gift to Pierce for his birthday?” Jack asked, pouring himself another beer as the waitress brought over a fresh pitcher.</p><p>“You know I am. Who have you gotten in the last month?”</p><p>“No one that great, but I’m making another round next week. See if I can’t find someone that… suits the mayor’s tastes.”</p><p>Brock grinned crookedly, nodding. “The older he gets, the younger he likes’em. And no more blondes, last year I heard him say somethin’ about blondes reminding him of his kids.”</p><p>Jack shuddered and Charlie gagged. Just because Pierce threw himself the city’s biggest birthday party, with the best after-hours entertainment money could pay to hush up, didn’t mean they particularly wanted to think about what the mayor did with that after-hours entertainment once alone. They weren’t on the payroll to ask questions, though, just to acquire the goods.</p><p>“I haven’t scouted out the south side in a while, I’ll go fishing for queers,” Jack announced, draining his beer and pushing out of the booth. “Maybe I should bring you along, Tolvey, see if a couple of blowjobs recalibrate your shitty gaydar.”</p><p>Brock snickered into his palm. “The way Tolvey loses bets, I doubt he’s got the cash for more than one suck. At least from anyone that’s any good.”</p><p>“You’re both assholes,” Tolvey declared, sitting back and crossing his arms. “The worst.”</p><p>“<em>Definitely </em> doesn’t have the money to pay for <em> two </em> assholes. Guess this rounds on you, Detective.” Jack grinned, disappearing into the far end of the crowd and the men’s room. Brock made a face at his back, fishing out his wallet.</p><p>“I swear, that man never pays for dinner, drinks, or hookers.” He counted out some bills, folding them neatly under his empty beer glass. “You on desk duty this week, Charlie?”</p><p>“Yeah, me and Wilson.”</p><p>“You know what you gotta do, right?”</p><p>Tolvey’s lower lip stuck out. “I know, any tips on dead hookers go straight to you.”</p><p>Brock patted him on the shoulder and stood up. “Good boy. Don’t let Jack keep you out too late.” He pushed his way through the bar and out into the night, only a little stagger in his steps as he headed for home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Genital Mutilation (referenced), Prescription Drug Abuse, Prostitution.</p><p><b>Major Warning:</b> Consent Issues; Dubious Consent; Coerced Consent</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Someone actually came in about Christina Ann Wolcott. Brock swallowed his surprise with his coffee, putting it aside and grabbing the file off his desk before he made his way to the interview room. Tolvey had sent his guest up from the front desk, pinged him about it directly on the internal system. Rushman wasn’t even aware.</p><p>According to what she’d given Tolvey at the desk, Kate Carter was Christina Ann Wolcott’s roommate. They lived at an address different from the one on the bail form, but he could guess it was still a church or a shelter. They’d known each other for nearly a year.</p><p>When asked about her job, she’d said she was an Avon rep. Brock smiled, shaking his head. That was more clever than most of the prostitutes that actually talked to him.</p><p>He knocked once on the interview room door before letting himself in, offering a smile and a handshake to the woman that stood in the room. “Ms. Carter?”</p><p>“Yes…” Her eyes were intense as she shook his hand, and Brock put in the effort to make himself more disarming. Sex workers were good at reading people, no reason for his attitude to put her wind up.</p><p>“Detective Brock Rumlow. I understand you have some information about Christina Ann Wolcott?”</p><p>“Chrissy’s dead, isn’t she?” Her inflection barely changed to make it a question. “I came in to check if she was… you know… Being held for something and I got put into this room and told someone would be down to talk to me.”</p><p>He exhaled slowly, nodding. “I hate to be the one to bring you the bad news, but yes, we identified Ms. Wolcott yesterday.”</p><p>“Is anything being done about it?”</p><p>Brock set the file down on the room’s single table, a small frown furrowing his brows. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot that <em> can </em> be done. No one has come forward with information and…” He shook his head, giving a small, bitter laugh. “Well, I only watch channel 10 news occasionally, but I didn’t see any coverage for her there last night.”</p><p>Kate’s eyes cut to the file, two pages inside a manilla folder. “What can you tell me?”</p><p>“About an ongoing investigation? Not much, especially since you’re not a family member of the deceased. But you seem like a smart woman… I work sex crimes, not homicide. Infer what you’d like from that.”</p><p>She watched his face for a moment, nodding slowly. “Has anyone claimed her remains yet?”</p><p>“Not yet. Do you know if she had family in the area? We’ve been checking to try to notify, but haven’t had much luck.”</p><p>“I don’t think so. I’d like to put in to claim her remains, if I can. I have a little set aside and Chrissy was a nice person. She deserved a proper funeral.”</p><p>Brock nodded, picking up the slim file again. “Officer Tolvey at the front desk can get you started on the process. If we find her family and they want to claim her, you can take them to court for it. But if there are no conflicting claims within a week, she’ll be turned over to your care.” He paused, opening the folder and glancing at the ME’s report. “I would suggest talking with a funeral home to perform the actual removal from the morgue. It’s better to remember your friend as you last saw her.” He paused again, his mouth drawing down for a moment. “Just for clarification, when <em> did </em> you last see her?”</p><p>Smart woman or not, he still saw Kate’s shoulders draw up, her body language closing off. “Night before last. We were out on a walk and I met up with a friend of mine, left her to head home alone while he and I caught up. It should have taken her ten minutes to get home, but I got home an hour later and she wasn’t there. I figured maybe she’d gone out somewhere. We’re both night owls.”</p><p>“Someone you were selling Avon to, maybe?”</p><p>Her chin rose, her eyes staying on him. “Maybe so.”</p><p>Brock pulled a card from his pocket, passing it over. “Maybe you know someone else that saw her under different circumstances that night. Maybe they call in anonymously and give some more details. Hard to know what information would help.”</p><p>She took the card, stuffing it in the back pocket of her jeans and nodded stiffly. “Hard to know. I think I’ll go now, if that’s okay.”</p><p>“Of course.” Brock smiled, shaking her hand again quickly. “Thank you for coming in, and I’m sorry for your loss.”</p><p>He watched her go, tucking the case file under his arm and heading out in the opposite direction. Natalie nearly ran into him in the hall.</p><p>“There you are.” Her hand curled around his arm, her eyes searching his face for a moment. There was something in her gaze, too scrutinizing.</p><p>“Wasn’t aware I was being looked for. Something wrong?”</p><p>Whatever scrutiny passed so fast he almost thought he’d imagined it. Natalie’s grip on his arm eased, her face returning to neutral. “Forensics just called me, they found some DNA on Wolcott.”</p><p>“Semen?”</p><p>“No, ME says that aside from the post-mortem foreign object insertion there wasn’t a sign of sexual assault. But they found foreign DNA under her nails. They’re running it through the system now, seeing how much of a match it gets.”</p><p>Brock hissed out a low breath, opening up the folder and flipping through it quickly. “She didn’t have any defensive wounds. If she scratched her assailant hard enough to get DNA under her nails, it would have ripped off or at least loosened the acrylics, right?”</p><p>Natalie nodded, her eyes tracking across the file. “So maybe it came from somewhere else. Lab should be able to tell us if it’s a complete or partial sample by the end of the day. A couple weeks and we might have a suspect.”</p><p>“Good to know. But… don’t get your hopes up, okay? Something seems off about it.” Brock shook his head, dropping the file back on his desk and poking the computer back to life. “Really, we should probably push her case over to homicide if there’s no sign of antemortem assault. But they’re swamped. Keeping her on our desks will at least prevent her from falling through the cracks.”</p><p>“This is bothering you, isn’t it?”</p><p>He swallowed, tried to shrug. “She reminds me of Ness, a bit. Where she coulda ended up.” His hand waved quickly. “‘Sides, I’m used to being able to help the people whose cases I get assigned. Hers shouldn’t be any different just ‘cause she’s dead.”</p>
<hr/><p>Maria Hill sat back at her computer, a blank document taking up the screen. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard for a moment, before she began to type.</p><p>
  <em> Christina Ann Wolcott has the bright smile of a pageant contestant and the steel spine of a Fortune 500 CEO… </em>
</p><p>Nearly two hours later, she skimmed the text again, exhaling slowly. If the <em> Philadelphia Daily News </em> wouldn’t let her run the story, she’d just put it on the <em> Philly Free Press </em> website. Assuming that it was approved there.</p><p>Granted, she needed a different approval first. Maria copied the text from the document and opened her email, sending it off to the contact she’d made earlier that day. Kate Carter, Christina Ann Wolcott’s roommate and last person to see her alive. The only person that seemed to agree with her that Christina’s death wasn’t a random circumstance, but part of a string of murders.</p><p>“Whoever’s doing this is a damn monster,” Maria said to herself, standing and going to pour a fresh cup of coffee. Early May and another brutalized body found naked in the trash with signs of post-mortem assault and ligature strangulation. A city the size of Philadelphia had its share of murders in a given month, gang-related shootings and arguments that got out of control, but these ones…</p><p>Her computer burred softly with an email alert and Maria crossed back to it, reading Kate’s reply. Approval on one front. Time to try for the next.</p><p>Phil Coulson ran multiple local news websites, blogs covering everything from charitable fundraisers to arrest tracking. If she’d dared speak the words ‘serial killer’ aloud in her journalist circles, it was only because he’d laid out the dots for her to connect. Maria pasted in the text of her potential article again, scrolling up and adding a quick note.</p><p><em> Phil - I think there’s something bigger going on than just Christina Ann Wolcott but the cops aren’t sharing and PDN won’t run the story. This needs to get out there, PFP might be the only place where it will be seen by the people that are most in danger. You can put any name you want on it, hell even your own, but </em> <b> <em>this story needs to be published</em>.</b><em> I won’t hold past favors over your head or try to bribe you, there’s no point. Just </em> <b> <em>do the right thing.</em></b></p><p>“Coming on a little strong, sweetie,” she murmured to herself, face serious. Coming on strong, maybe, but that didn’t make her words any less true. People needed to see Christina’s face, read her name, know her story. The <em> Free Press </em> passed out print copies to homeless shelters and churches, sometimes went corner to corner handing them to people individually. If there was a newspaper bed in the city, it was probably made of back copies of Phil’s charity paper. Their bread and butter was announcements of needle turn ins, free meals, and no-cost STD testing, but alerts to potential sex trafficking rings, tainted street drugs, and possible kidnappings had all gone through the <em> Free Press </em> in the past and led to some actual results from the police. At least if one was inclined to believe Phil’s bragging when he got two gin martinis into him at a gala or banquet. </p><p>His response to her email was even faster than Kate’s, a single word on top of what, rereading it, Maria realized was basically begging.</p><p>
  <em> Published.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>One more client and he’d call it a night. Go home, take a Xanax or a Valium, if there were any left in the little orange bottles. There was always alcohol to knock him out if the pills were gone. Maybe he should just call it quits now, the uppers from that evening were wearing thin. If he took more now he’d just end up staying up until late afternoon and crashing through his four hour shift at the gas station. Again. Though, he made more money on his knees than selling cigarettes.</p><p>His phone beeped and Bucky pulled it from the pocket of his jeans, tapping in his passcode to read the message. Steve, saying that he was done and headed home for the night. His fingers hovered over the reply field, about to announce that he too was wrapped up, before a car slowed down beside him. The passenger window rolled down and he tucked his phone back into his pocket. One more for the night.</p><p>“Hey there, handsome.” Bucky leaned on the side of the car, leaning in the window slightly. The guy inside wasn’t exactly what he’d call <em> handsome </em> if given the choice, too broad, with a severe, almost military haircut and a scar twisting along his chin, but if he was paying. “You lookin’ for some fun?”</p><p>“Are you fun?” He placed one big hand on the passenger seat and leaned closer. Bucky felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. What they said about big hands…</p><p>“I could be persuaded to be, with the right… incentive. You have cash?”</p><p>“Give me a dollar amount.” The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Big, tough, gay, and nervous. Bucky <em> liked </em> that. “Dollface.”</p><p>“Aw, you sure know how to make a guy feel special. Tell you what, I’ll cut you a good deal. Two-fifty and I’ll give you the best blowjob you ever had.” He batted his eyelashes, licking his lips slowly and surely. “Six hundred and you can find out just how tight my ass is.”</p><p>“Tighter than your jeans, you think?” There was a bulge growing in the man’s pants, visible even from his position outside the car. Dammit, he should have gone up to seven hundred.</p><p>“Guess you’ll have to pay to find out.”</p><p>“Maybe I ain’t got the cash. You take other forms of payment?”</p><p>His shoulders sagged for a moment, half ready to walk away. He didn’t do tricks for free, this wasn’t a sample sale. Before Bucky could retort, the man opened the glove box, a small array of orange pill bottles spilling out. In the dim streetlight, he couldn’t read the labels, but if this guy had pills--</p><p>“You got Xanax or Valium in there?”</p><p>“Lorazepam. Ativan. Basically the same thing. Interested?”</p><p>“I’ll take twenty off for each pill you give me.” Easy decision. Twenty bucks a pill was steep, but he’d paid more and as long as it’d help him sleep after a night… Bucky reached for the door handle, but the man shook his head.</p><p>“Deal’s good, fifty bucks for a suck. No need to go anywhere.” He shut the car off, getting out and walking around it slowly. Had Bucky thought he was big before? He’d been wrong, the man was absolutely huge. He loomed over Bucky, one massive hand reaching up to stroke his jaw. “Tell you what, dollface… you make it a good suck, and I won’t add drug charges to your rap sheet.” He moved his jacket aside, the gold of his police badge gleaming in the streetlight.</p><p>Bucky swallowed hard, moving to step back even as that hand wrapped around the back of his neck. “That’s entrapment.”</p><p>“You approached me. You said a number. Now either get in the back seat or get on your knees.” The man grinned, sharp and predatory. “And make it the best blowjob I ever had.”</p><p>Steve was gonna be <em> so </em> pissed at him, Bucky thought, swallowing his nerves once more and sinking to his knees. So. Pissed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Drug Dealing, Minor OMC Deaths (offscreen/referenced).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bucky hadn’t texted him back.</p><p>He hadn’t come home.</p><p>Neither of those things on their own were concerning. Even combined, they weren’t <em> too </em> out of the question. His phone could have died (except it wasn’t going straight to voicemail when he called). He could have met someone that wanted to party (except he would have texted Steve as much). Or gotten sleeping pills from a client and decided to crash in a motel (except he didn’t sleep where clients took him).</p><p>And all of that was fine, or as close to it as the two of them got. They tried to keep each other informed, keep each other safe. Sometimes it didn't work like that was all.</p><p>Except Bucky had read his text and hadn’t responded. It was still sitting there in his messages, <em> Read 2:07am</em>. His follow-ups over the next hours had been delivered but not read.</p><p>Steve could feel his chest tightening with worry as the sun rose. Dammit, why didn’t phone books exist anymore? He’d used the last of his data for the month already and they really couldn’t afford the overage fees. He could go to the diner on the corner and use their wifi… in an hour, when they opened.</p><p>Bucky wouldn’t have read his text if he was with a client. That was just bad manners. And if he’d read it, he would have replied, even with just a <em> K. </em> So that he’d read it and not replied? <em> And </em> not come home?</p><p>Steve really didn’t like the thought of that.</p><p>His fingers tapped nervously on the threadbare arm of their couch, teeth working his lower lip ragged as he once more turned his phone on to look at his texts. His last message from Bucky had been around 11. After that was his own ‘heading home’ text, then six more--increasingly concerned as the morning got closer--asking where Bucky was, if he was okay, if he needed a pick up. How much were data overages? Fifty dollars a gig, right? He could pay that if he had to, one or two extra clients a week until the bill came in.</p><p>His fingers hovered over the data button on his phone as the sun peeked into the miniscule living room of the apartment, ready to look up and start calling hospitals. Just to ease his own mind.</p><p>He nearly flung his phone across the room when it started vibrating in his hands, ringtone chiming as an unknown number popped up on the screen. Steve answered with shaking fingers, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”</p><p>“Stevie, oh thank god--” <em> Bucky</em>, and so much relief flooded him he sank into the sagging sofa and didn’t even mind the broken spring that dug into his spine.</p><p>“Buck, where are you, are you okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, I--I’m fine. I’m <em> fine</em>, Steve. I’m down at the city jail, they uh, busted me for…”</p><p>Steve licked his lips, humming into the phone. Police station courtesy phone, probably meant it was monitored. Easier to not say it. “Yeah, okay. You got a lawyer?”</p><p>“Got one assigned to me. But Stevie… I need bail money.”</p><p>His gaze tracked across the room to the kitchen, to the stack of overdue bills on the side of the fridge. Winter was over, the electric company really needed to be paid before they got cut off. “How much?”</p><p>“Eight hundred.”</p><p>Steve felt his chest constrict. That was more than rent for a month. They could pay bail and rent, if they wanted to sit in the dark and starve. “Buck--”</p><p>“I know. I know, I fucked up, okay? I’ll make it up to you. Grab the stash inside my mattress and get in touch with Dugan, okay? He’ll be able to move it.”</p><p>“You can’t sell your…” Steve wracked his brain, trying to fill in something besides ‘pills.’ Not on a monitored call. “Baseball cards,” he finished, hoping it didn’t sound as lame as it felt.</p><p>Bucky laughed a little on the line. “Haven’t got a choice. Tell D you want a sixty percent cut of what he sells’em for. Don’t tell him why. There’ll always be another signed Babe Ruth, right?”</p><p>“Right.” Steve heaved himself up from the couch, his bare toes curling against the cold floor. “You okay in there?”</p><p>“The cops are looking at me like I’m an all-you-can-fuck buffet, because every pig in this city is apparently into guyliner, but yeah, I’ll manage until you can get it together. Three hots and a cot, almost better than home ‘cept I gotta bunk with a bunch of drunk hobos instead of being your human furnace.” Bucky laughed again, a little ragged on the edges. “I’m gonna try to sleep until you get here. Just don’t take too long, punk. I know you’re helpless without me.”</p><p>“‘Least now all the stupid is locked up in one place,” he shot back, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew where Bucky was, that was a start. Eight hundred dollars, that was a nightmare, but… But nothing. They’d take care of it. “I’ll come bail you out as soon as I can. Promise.”</p><p>“You better. Gotta go, they’re giving me the wave off. Don’t cause trouble.”</p><p>“Don’t--” The line went dead and Steve sighed, tucking his phone into his pocket. He slipped into the closet-sized bedroom, kneeling down and digging into the rip in the mattress. Do what had to be done to survive. They were screwed if Bucky was in jail and couldn’t work. More screwed than busting him out would leave them, even.</p><p>He closed his fist around the pill bottle, pulling it out and rattling it. A whole dose of Serzone would sell for about $1200 if Dugan was smart in who he sold to. That… He pulled his phone back out, pulling up the calculator app and hoping he was doing the math right. That left them short at sixty percent, but even that was asking way more than Dugan usually cut them in for. Steve could add his own prescriptions to the pile, but those bottles were getting dangerously close to empty and he couldn’t get a refill at the free clinic for another three weeks.</p><p>He scrolled through his contacts, heaving a sigh. No one he knew was going to help him fix Bucky’s stupidity--which was how they’d all see it. This fell on their shoulders alone. Steve shot off a quick text to Dugan, asking him to meet up later, saying he had some stuff to sell, then went into the bathroom. He could part with two or three Valium, if he still had them. He’d be fine.</p><p>Bucky needed the money more than either of them needed the pills.</p>
<hr/><p>Brock raised an eyebrow as Jack slapped a file onto his desk, carefully putting aside his coffee cup and opening it. The mugshot that stared back at him was intense, fierce eye contact and an upturned chin. He turned to the next page, skimming the arrest record. Picked up for prostitution, tried to proposition an on-duty officer. Blood draw had come back negative for STDs but positive for amphetamines. Brock raised an eyebrow at Jack as he read the results.</p><p>“Claims he takes prescription antidepressants and it triggered a false positive. Lab says that’s possible. He’s got all his teeth and I didn’t find that out the hard way.”</p><p>“For once.” He glanced at his watch, closing the file. “I’d say top contender for Pierce’s party. Keep an eye on him unless someone better comes in. I’ll handle pick-up.”</p><p>“Sure you wanna go to the south side and let the queers hit on you?”</p><p>Brock snorted, shoving the file at him. “Don’t worry, I get enough guys drooling over me at work that I know how to ignore it.”</p><p>Jack rolled his eyes as he walked away. “You <em> wish</em>, Detective. They’re all too busy staring at me in the locker room. Full package here.”</p><p>“Oh my god.” A feminine voice interrupted and both men turned, Jack’s ears going red as Natalie stared at them. “Oh my god,” she repeated, slower, shaking her head. “Just get married already, you two. I’ve got twenty bucks against Charlie Tolvey that you’re secretly in love with each other.”</p><p>Jack sputtered, going redder. He stormed out of the room, shouting for Tolvey as Natalie took a seat. Brock maintained a bit more composure, contorting his face into a frown. “Tolvey thinks Jack and I are gay for each other?”</p><p>“No, Tolvey thinks your dick is broken and Jack’s straight. <em> I </em> can tell you two are meant to be.” She shrugged, turning her computer monitor on. “The ‘drunken Christmas party make out’ vibe just oozes off you two. Really, you should talk to him about it. You’d make a cute couple.”</p><p>Brock sat back and crossed his arms. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or genuinely think that.”</p><p>“Part of my charms, partner.”</p><p>He didn’t have a retort for that, was spared trying to come up with one by both of their computers lighting up with an alert. Brock opened the file, letting out a low whistle. “Son of a bitch. They actually got a full sample off the blood under Wolcott’s fingernail.”</p><p>Natalie’s eyes scanned her screen, a frown drawing the corners of her mouth down. “Felix Gates, DNA in the federal database after serving time for sexually assaulting a woman in DC.”</p><p>“Yeah, and two months ago he was shot in the head in the passenger seat of Ricardo Lopez’s car. Gang-related.” Brock tabbed over, pulling up the file. “Lopez caught one in the chest and one in the thigh, bled out on the operating room table. Gates was DOA. Car went to evidence, then impound…” He frowned, clicking after the paper trail. “And then to the dump to be disassembled and scrapped.”</p><p>“So how’d a dead man’s blood get under her nails?”</p><p>Brock shrugged. “They had an encounter before he got his?”</p><p>“Six weeks and it’s still a viable sample? I wash my hands six times a day and shower twice. Even if she does that half as often, it’s not going to still be there.” Natalie leaned back, closing her eyes. “Shot in the head, his blood would have been all over that car. We know she was working as a prostitute the night she died, stands to reason that she’d be in the passenger seat of a john’s car. Need impound records for the car, see if anyone took it out for any reason the night she died.”</p><p>“I’ll--” Another alert, only on his computer this time. Brock read it, his shoulders slumping. “You chase that lead, I’ve got a meeting with Sitwell. This can only go horribly.” He stood, pulling on his jacket and taking the last cold swallow from his coffee cup.</p><p>“What’s the head of IAD want with you?” Natalie’s fingers were already moving on her keyboard, her eyes flicking to him briefly.</p><p>“Probably not to take me to lunch, but we can always hope.” He grinned, slipping out of their miniscule office and strolling down the hall. Having a lead on the Wolcott case had brightened his day, even a meeting with Sitwell couldn’t fully diminish that.</p><p>Right up until he closed the door to the man’s office behind himself, anyways. Sitwell’s office was immaculate as always, his blotter cleared, his paperwork neatly filed away and probably alphabetized. Even his computer desktop wasn’t cluttered with loose files and too many folders. There was uptight and then there was a man like Jasper Sitwell.</p><p>“Detective. Take a seat.”</p><p>“So it’s gonna be a long meeting?” Brock dropped into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk, leaning back. “I shoulda grabbed a fresh cup of coffee.”</p><p>Sitwell offered him a thin smile, taking a moment to brush some imagined bit of dirt off his suit lapel before folding his hands on his desk. “How are things with your new partner? I know you were… displeased with the circumstances around Detective Morrison’s departure.”</p><p>“Rushman’s fine. She’s fitting in well.” He shifted his weight, trying not to squirm too much with that gaze on him. Internal Affairs meetings could make anyone nervous, and his record wasn’t exactly spotless. “Following up on a lead on the Wolcott case right now. DNA under the vic’s fingernails, traced back to--”</p><p>Sitwell raised a hand. “Save your findings for the court. But I’m glad you brought up Wolcott. We have a problem.” He reached under the desk, opening a drawer and taking out a dirty, crumply newspaper. Brock leaned forward as he spread it on the clean surface of the desk. “This is the latest edition of the <em> Philly Free Press</em>, that charity paper they hand out at homeless shelters. And this,” he turned it, tapping an article, “is an exposé on the death of Christina Ann Wolcott. Someone at this paper seems to think that there’s a serial killer in Philadelphia.”</p><p>“Son of a bitch…” His gaze darted to the byline, breath hissing between his teeth. “Aaron Moss?”</p><p>“Pseudonym for anonymous source. It’s what they do when someone can’t or won’t put their name to a story. But these things don’t get published without approval.” Sitwell shook his head. “If larger media outlets get wind of this, they could look into it. They could start demanding the FBI come in… And neither of us want the mayor to have to deal with that.”</p><p>Brock shook his head, frowning. “So, what’s the strategy?”</p><p>“Phil Coulson runs the <em> Free Press</em>, among other things. He’ll be at Mayor Pierce’s birthday party and I’ll discuss this with him. Get the name of his writer, convince him to retract the statement about a potential serial killer. If we’re lucky, we’ll nip it in the bud before anyone else has to know.”</p><p>“And my part in this?”</p><p>“Solve the Wolcott case. Get whatever evidence you need that she pissed off her pimp or ran afoul of some gang members. Anything that shows no connection to… other murders. You’re a detective, Brock, I’m sure you know how to solve a case.”</p><p>He bit back a retort to the comment, his eyes still on the paper. “And keep the serial killer idea away from Fury, right?”</p><p>“There’s no reason to worry the chief about false allegations. Breaking the connection that the writer established between Wolcott and some other unfortunates earlier this year will be enough to brush away the whole notion.” Sitwell folded the cheaply printed paper up, tipping it into the empty waste bin next to his desk. “That’s all I needed to speak with you about. Have a nice day, Detective Rumlow.”</p><p>Brock pushed himself to his feet, trying not to let his hands clench into fists. “Yeah. You too.” He stepped out of the office, shutting the door behind him and leaning against the wall, breathing slowly.</p><p>God, he hated Internal Affairs. It was like getting sent to the principal’s office as an adult.</p>
<hr/><p>Natalie waited until Brock’s footsteps faded to stand up, pulling a thumb drive from her pocket and popping it into the port on his computer as she took a seat at her partner’s desk. “Let’s see what you’re really up to, Detective,” she murmured, fingers hovering over the keyboard as the drive’s programs began installing. A key tracer, a screen recorder, and a rabbit hole; the perfect combination to plant spyware on someone’s computer without them being able to find the source. She pulled her buzzing phone from her pocket, holding it up to her ear as the drive began downloading.</p><p>“Does it feel wrong to be spying on such a good cop?” Tony asked over the line and while she couldn’t physically see him, she could picture him well enough. Probably sat cross-legged on the floor of his closet-sized office at Quantico, hands on his laptop and some ‘extracurricular programming’ while his eyes were on the dataflow of seven different monitors. A number of empty, half-full, and full coffee cups strewn around him--all from that day. There was a reason almost no one went into his domain.</p><p>“He’s not a good cop. He helped with the cover up when John Morrison shot himself. And he’s got a list of civilian complaints as long as my forearm.”</p><p>“Yet he’s such a nice guy, and kinda handsome in that rugged, cheekbones to cut glass way, and--”</p><p>“Stark, a little focus, please. I don’t know how long I have here.” Natalie sighed, switching her phone to her other ear. “Talk me through this, computer boy.”</p><p>“That’s computer <em> man </em> to you, Romanoff. Okay, okay, lemme see… Shit, your boy’s a little bit of a mess, isn’t he?”</p><p>“That’s how I like them, apparently. I’ve got a black screen here, tell me when I can take the drive out.” Even as she spoke, the screen lit up, showing her the desktop of Brock’s computer. Files and folders with no apparent organizational system. She groaned softly. “Why do cops hate technology so much?”</p><p>“I don’t know, but it makes my job harder. See me?” The mouse wiggled on the screen and she snorted.</p><p>“Yeah, I got you.”</p><p>“Good, now let me see if I have you. Go ahead and type something.” A few more movements of the mouse and a blank text document opened up.</p><p>Natalie settled her fingers on the keyboard, humming in thought before tapping four keys.</p><p>
  <em> Dork. </em>
</p><p>“Very mature, very mature. Did you know that the etymology of ‘dork’ is actually super recent and--”</p><p>“Focus, Tony.”</p><p>“Right, right, right. Okay, take the drive out and let’s see if everything is copacetic. Now that’s a fun word, no one really knows where it came from. Type something else, but make it more fun for me.” A dialogue box popped up, prompting her for a password.</p><p>Natalie didn’t have to think about that one for more than a second, typing quickly, watching the black dots fill in on the screen.</p><p>••••••••••••</p><p>“You’re a horrible person and I’m telling your FBI Secret Santa to get you coal next Christmas,” Tony huffed and Natalie grinned. “Looks like we’re up and running.” The dialogue box closed, then the text document, before the monitor went black again. “I’ll clue you in if Detective Stubble does anything interesting.”</p><p>She pushed herself up from the chair, settling back at her own and disconnecting the call, the thumb drive once more slipped into her pocket. One of Tony’s little ‘extracurriculars’ that the federal government had taken into their custody.Not exactly the most legal way to gather evidence, but technically speaking these computers were also government property. </p><p>Besides, they were going to have to play dirty if they wanted to weed out the corruption in the Philadelphia police department. Nick Fury wouldn’t have called in a favor with the bureau if there was any other way.</p><p>Natalie looked up with a little smile when Brock came back five minutes later, passing him printed files of what she’d managed to find. A few people with criminal records had easy access to the impound lot, including one man who’d served time for stalking and assaulting a stripper.</p><p>It was better than nothing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Racism (implied), Prescription Drug Abuse, Depression, PTSD, Prostitution, Physical Abuse, Child Abuse, Homophobia, Homophobic Language.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Officer Sam Wilson knew corruption. Knew it ran deep among his colleagues. He saw it in the way they grouped together, inside the station and out. The way whispered conversations came to an end when the wrong person entered the room--like himself. It wasn’t his place to try to weed it out, he was just a beat cop who mostly worked an information desk, but he noted it. Charlie Tolvey, his newly assigned partner, had drunk the metaphorical kool-aid. Sam pretended not to notice the way certain people were ushered past him without even a ‘by your leave.’ Funny, whose cases they usually had information on.</p><p>Chief Fury had tried to bring it up to him once, had gotten him alone in the break room by pure chance. The man had crossed his arms and frowned and Sam had felt it coming, the division between <em> us </em> and <em> them </em> that was being drawn. He’d been ready to say that he didn’t know anything because no one would tell him anything and let the chief piece together the rest. Fury would.</p><p>And maybe that conversation still would have happened if he’d waited, but just before Fury could open his mouth, Detective Brock Rumlow had walked into the room with a half full mug of coffee. He’d blinked blearily--it was almost four in the morning, Sam wasn’t sure if Brock was just getting there or was still there--at the coffee pot until Fury had cleared his throat.</p><p>“It’s empty. I was just about to brew a fresh pot.”</p><p>“Son of a bitch,” Brock had muttered, dumping his cup down the sink and rinsing it quickly. He looked at the clock, blinking owlishly for a moment. “Is that--”</p><p>Sam took the chance to duck out of the room, taking his poptarts with him untoasted.</p><p>Had it been a coincidence? Brock hung out with Jack Rollins a lot, as much as two cops in different departments could be said to hang out. Charlie Tolvey practically hung onto Rollins’ every word, the man was his direct supervisor on the beat. Both of their direct supervisor, though Sam usually let Charlie go give their shift reports. Something about the big cop was just… off-putting. Reminded him too much of the good ol’ boy types in his Air Force days. The kind of guy that would grin and nod as his buddies--bolstered by having his muscle on their side--catcalled after Sam once the CO was out of earshot.</p><p>He liked the notion of police work. Of helping people. He just didn’t seem to get much of it at the precinct.</p><p>Which, coupled with his military medical training and online degree in psychology, was what put him at the free clinic, volunteering hours he could have spent sleeping while off shift. He felt like he was making a difference, and more than that, he <em> liked </em> volunteering at the clinic. Mostly it was administering STD tests and treatments to prostitutes whose pimps wouldn’t pay for the hospital, stitching up gang members whose criminal records wouldn’t let them go to the hospital, and listening to drug addicts explain why they really just needed those pills for medical reasons… but it was fulfilling. And like Missy, who was homeless, roughly a thousand years old, and thoroughly convinced that she was a Southern belle told him, he was apparently worth ten of the headshrinkers that her late husband had lost his fortune on.</p><p>All because he could brew her a decent cup of coffee.</p><p>Crazy wasn’t for everyone, but it suited Sam just fine.</p><p>He let himself into the door of the clinic on the first warm, sunny Saturday of May with a skip in his step and a tune whistling out between his teeth, grinning wide at the absolute chaos of the waiting area. Two knife wounds that he could see, a split lip, at least half a dozen junkies, and--</p><p>“Steve!” Sam beamed, crossing the room and giving the scrawny blond a quick high five. “Long time no see, man. How are you? How’s Bucky?”</p><p>Steve smiled, the look weak for a moment before he really put his heart into it. “Long story, doc. I’m sure I won’t even be the most interesting sob story you hear today.”</p><p>“Well, it <em> is </em> early. I’ll make sure you get put on my roster, we’ll talk it out.”</p><p>Steve was definitely a junkie, but he wasn’t interested in opioids or substances that could be broken down to get a stronger high. No doubt he sold some on the side, he got refills too often for anything else, but Steve was one of his few drug patients that actually required the medications he sought. Anxiety medication and while Sam couldn’t write prescriptions, he’d taken less than an hour talking to Steve to convince the psychiatrist that the blond needed it.</p><p>He had to push Steve (and Bucky, his often-discussed roommate--or maybe boyfriend? Sam could never tell) to the back of his mind for about two hours, among other things the time spent stitching up one of the knife wounds he’d seen in the lobby, listening to the tattooed, muscled man drop every curse under the sun that the <em> hijo de puta </em> who came at him had cut up his black rose tattoo.</p><p>“I paid premium for this, <em> hombre</em>, and now it’s gonna have a fuckin’ scar through it.”</p><p>“Only because you waited two days to come get stitched up, <em> hermano</em>.” Sam tied it off, patting his shoulder lightly. “How’s the other guy look?”</p><p>“He’s fucking dead, man. <em> Mi primo </em> shot him, drive by style.”</p><p>These rooms were safe from his cop brain, so Sam diligently ignored that comment. He grinned instead, wrapping clean white gauze around the man’s arm. “I think it’ll look pretty cool, you know? But hey, it’ll scar less if you keep it clean, <em> comprende</em>? Put new bandages on if these get wet or dirty. Come back in a week and someone will take a look at how it’s healing. But if it starts to feel hot or swell up, come back right away.”</p><p>“Man I’m never gonna remember all that shit. Hold on, hold on…” He pulled a phone from his pocket, dialing quickly. “<em>Mama</em>, listen to this doctor.”</p><p>Sam repeated his instructions into the phone, though given that the woman answered him in rapid-fire Spanish (questions, if he had to guess from her inflection), it was anyone’s guess how well his rules would be followed. He led his patient back to the waiting room regardless, waving him off and glancing at his roster.</p><p>“Hey, Steve, come on back.”</p><p>He flipped to the latest page in Steve’s file, a frown already pulling at the corner of his mouth. Steve was on one month refills for either Xanax or Valium, but two weeks ago someone had given him both. And here he was, back already… Sam pushed it aside, sitting forward slightly as Steve sat down. “What’s up, man?”</p><p>“I need Serzone. Or Prozac. Or something, antidepressants. We, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, looking away. “Ran into some money trouble and had to sell Bucky’s pills. I know I’m not supposed to do that, but--”</p><p>“Where does Bucky’s prescription come from?” He wasn’t in the clinic system, as far as Sam knew.</p><p>“He gets it through the VA, talks to a doctor there and all that. It’s, you know, legit. We just… they’ll cut him off if they think he’s selling and he needs those, you know? I’ve barely gotten him out of bed without them since he got out of jail.”</p><p>His cop brain was trying to weasel in. Sam pushed it down. “Steve, I can’t write you a prescription, I’m not a doctor. And I can’t lie on an evaluation and say that you’ve suddenly developed a need for antidepressants, and get someone <em> else </em> to write you a prescription. Why was he in jail?”</p><p>Steve kicked his feet against the scuffed tiles of the floor. “Picked up for prostitution. Some cop totally trapped him into it. He won’t tell me about it, but… Well. you know how cops in this city are. Get what they need, take what they want.” God, did Sam ever know how cops in this city were. Steve pushed on before he could say anything. “Bucky’s supposed to have a legit job, it’s part of the VA thing, but the only one he’s been able to hold down is a few hours a week at a convenience store. It’s not enough for us to live by, and I can’t find work either. So we both…” He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I told you this wasn’t the most interesting sob story you’d hear all day. Couple of druggie whores need more drugs because we sold them to pay bail after getting picked up for whoring.”</p><p>“Hey, I didn’t say any of that.” He reached over and patted Steve’s knee lightly. “I can’t help you out with the antidepressants, but I know a thing or two about VA policies, and…” He swallowed, mentally checking in if he was really going to do this. Seemed like it. “Bucky got a nice smile, the kind that makes your knees a little weak?”</p><p>“Yeah…” Steve’s brows pulled together, furrowing in confusion.</p><p>“That can go a long way in getting someone to look the other way once. As long as he doesn’t make it a habit, just go down to an office that isn’t his regular and say that the pharmacy made an error. He couldn’t get down there to pick up his pills in time and they pushed it through as claimed rather than unobtained. Happens a lot, you know? The right amount of charming and nine out of ten front desk nurse aids will put in a new prescription without checking it. Just don’t abuse that loophole.”</p><p>Steve’s eyes were widening, his shoulders relaxing. “Thanks… Sam, I mean it. Bucky needs those and we wouldn’t have sold them if we had any other way to make the bail money. Really. Thank you.”</p><p>“No problem. And Steve?” He pulled his wallet out, pulling out one of the business cards within. “I try to keep this job away from this place, but if you two run into trouble with Philly PD again…” He handed over the card, shrugging. “I don’t have a lot of swing there, but I might be able to get you in touch with someone who does.”</p><p>“You’re a cop?” There was a flash of something in Steve’s eyes, something hurt, betrayed, a little afraid. His fingers trembled, not quite touching the card Sam still held out to him.</p><p>“Not when I’m in the clinic. Nothing I learn here goes with me when I put that uniform on. I can’t let it. People need this place, people need to be able to trust this place. You’re the only one besides admin that knows and I’d like to keep it that way.”</p><p>Finally, Steve’s fingers closed around the card, tucking it into the pocket of his battered jeans. “I won’t tell anyone.” He picked at the ragged edges of his fingernails, exhaling slowly. “Are you working on that serial killer thing?”</p><p>“What serial killer thing?”</p><p>“<em>Free Press </em> put it out, I was reading about it in the lobby. They think that there’s a serial killer going after whores--sex workers, they said. There’s been like five people found dead and it’s real nasty. The latest one was earlier this month, Christina Wolcott or something like that.”</p><p>Sam exhaled slowly, filing that away for later. He’d look into it… Rumlow and the new detective, Rushman, were on the Wolcott case--but they were sex crimes, not homicide. “You and Bucky work together when you go out at night?”</p><p>“We hang out until one of us gets picked up, yeah.”</p><p>“What are you doing to stay safe? Not condoms and stuff, but… Monitoring who you leave with, checking in with each other?”</p><p>Steve chewed his lip, shrugging. “We text when we’re done for the night. Go back to the same spot if it’s a quick john. Stuff like that.”</p><p>“So you’ve got cell phones?”</p><p>“Duh.”</p><p>“Shut up, blondie, it’s a legitimate question.” Sam frowned, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Okay, every john that picks you up, get two pictures. Face and license plate. Send’em to each other over text. If he doesn’t agree to the pics, don’t go with him.”</p><p>“No one’s going to agree to have a picture of their face taken by a whore. You know how many ‘family values’ politicians I’ve sucked off in a vacant lot in the last year?” Steve snorted. “License plate might be fine, we can always get that before walking up.”</p><p>“It’s better than nothing. If they don’t like it, they can get off with their hand. Tell anyone else you know working out there to do the same thing. If there’s really a serial killer, that’s our best chance for catching them.”</p><p>There wasn’t much else he could do for Steve--no medication refills this week, no gaming the system for antidepressants on his end. They bid their goodbyes and Sam watched him go, letting out a breath.</p><p>Serial killer. Was that what people were saying? Someone should tell Fury so he could get the FBI involved. Sam lifted up one of the copies of the <em> Free Press</em>, folding it and tucking it into his pocket. Maybe that’d land on Fury’s desk Monday. Coincidentally. Accidentally. Not by his hand, for sure.</p><p>Sam shut his cop brain up, grabbing the next file on his roster and calling for his patient.</p>
<hr/><p>As far as john’s went, he’d had worse. That’s what Levi decided to tell himself. The guy had gotten to the point as soon as he’d gotten into the car.</p><p>“I want you to get me off,” he’d said, voice low, eyes forward as he drove. Both hands on the wheel. Then, “open the glove box.”</p><p>He’d done as he was told, sucked in a breath at what nearly fell onto the floor between his feet. The stack of twenties was one thing, but the little baggie of white… He’d stuffed both back in and shut it.</p><p>“One or the other. Your pick. But if you do a good job…” They were at a stop light, signalling to turn left. The john glanced at him and gave a crooked smile. “Then both.”</p><p>He’d planned to do a good job. And the john seemed eager enough. He’d pulled into a motel and taken Levi to a room, no stop at the front desk. Business man looking for a way to get off while away from his wife? No, he didn’t see a wedding ring on the man’s rough hand. Closeted guy branching out? That seemed more likely.</p><p>Even more likely when the man sat down on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his pants with no ceremony. Levi started to pull his shirt off, but the john hissed in a breath.</p><p>“Keep your clothes on. I don’t wanna look at your body.”</p><p>“Your rules, man.”</p><p>He got on his knees, and he’d been there for at least twenty minutes now, and--nothing. Not for lack of trying on his part, but the guy just wasn’t into it. Maybe it was the TV too loud in the adjacent motel room. Maybe it was his tongue ring, some johns were put off by that. Or maybe the guy was discovering that a mouth wasn’t a mouth after all. Levi chanced another glance up, but his john hadn’t moved much--hands clenching the blanket on either side, head tipped back slightly, cords on his neck straining. This was a shitty night all around, he couldn’t make it much worse.</p><p>He sat back, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. He’d even forgone the fucking condom, so this guy better not have had herpes or something. “Hey, man,” Levi started, fingers rubbing the john’s thigh gently. “Why don’t we try something else, huh? Line up some of that blow you got, see if it helps you,” <em> get it up</em>, he thought, swallowing the words. Johns didn’t like to be reminded they were having trouble. “You know, relax.”</p><p>The backhand put him flat on his ass before he even saw it coming, cheek flushing warm, his vision swimming for a moment. Levi looked up, holding his stinging cheek and frowning. <em> Now </em> the john was looking at him, jaw working as he rubbed his knuckles on the leg of his pants. “You trying to say that because I’m not into queers, there’s something wrong with me?”</p><p>“Didn’t say that. Hey, look, it happens sometimes--”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.” The john stood, brushed a hand through his short dark hair--hair Levi had been fantasizing about pulling while he rode the man’s lap, ten minutes ago--and started pacing the room. “Just shut the <em> fuck </em> up, you’re nothing, just a whore, you’re lucky you’re even <em> alive</em>--” He clenched his fist, slammed it into the wall by the door.</p><p>Cautiously, Levi got to his feet, looking from the john to the door. There was no way he’d get out. He backed up instead, was almost to the bathroom, to the relative safety of that, when the john turned back to him. Fear staggered his steps and he tripped over the corner of the bed, fell onto it with a little yelp.</p><p>“Hey… hey, c’mon now…” The anger was fading, something like concern there instead. Maybe the guy was already high as fuck, it’d explain the mood swings. He stepped to the bed, climbed on and pinned Levi back against the scratchy comforter. “It’s your fault, you know. You’re just not good enough.”</p><p>“I’ll go, then--no charge, man, I’ll just leave--” Another hit, this one with a closed fist, and he felt his teeth shift, letting out a yelp. His arms raised, trying to guard his face.</p><p>“Makin’ me lose my temper like this, who do you think you are, huh?”</p><p><em> That </em> was a role he knew, and even though this guy was definitely sober, his problem wasn’t whiskey dick, Levi could smell the ghost of alcohol wafting over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, daring to peek up between his fingers, for a moment a different man superimposed over the john. He was suddenly much younger, and he knew what came next, could already feel the aches and pains of bruises. Normally his old man didn’t go for the face. “Sorry…”</p><p>The john’s face twisted, like he too was seeing something different, before he reached out. Levi flinched, but those rough fingers only stroked through his hair, gentle now. “Fuckin’... You ain’t worth it.” His hands moved to Levi’s wrists, guided his arms down away from his face. “Just remember that. You ain’t worth the risk.” He climbed off the bed, vanished into the bathroom for a minute while Levi tried to remember how to properly breathe. Inhale, exhale, don’t cry. Crying only made it worse. He sat up slowly, pulled his knees up and hid his face against them. Crying only made it worse.</p><p>“Easy now, easy…” The hand on the back of his neck made him flinch, but it only rubbed until he dared to look up. A cool washcloth pressed against his cheek, the damp material smelling faintly of industrial strength bleach. “I’ll get the cash and the blow outta my car, that should be enough for you to forget tonight ever happened, yeah?”</p><p><em> Like hell</em>, he wanted to say, now that a modicum of sense was returning to him over pure animal panic. Instead he nodded, taking the washcloth when the john pressed his hand to it. Levi watched him leave and come back, shifting on the bed. “You wanna… I dunno, do a couple lines with me? We can try again later--”</p><p>“Nah.” He was rifling through the room, pulling out a few items he’d apparently stored there. His eyes fell on Levi, dark and intense, assessing. Once more, the image of the john was overlaid with someone he swore he’d never have to deal with again after turning eighteen. “Are you…” He shook his head, hands curled into fists at his sides for a moment. “You’re fine. Nothin’ worse than the old man used to do, right?”</p><p>He was momentarily taken aback, nodded dumbly. “Right.” Levi wiped the wash cloth across his face, dropping it aside and moving to the edge of the bed, swinging his feet over it. “No one’ll mind if I got a couple’a bruises. They never do.”</p><p>The john seemed ready to do something, maybe say something. His hand rose, then fell again. He shrugged, moving to the door. One quick turn of the doorknob and he was gone. Even over the TV next door, Levi heard the car start up.</p><p>He counted out the money and weighed the baggie of cocaine in his hand, stuffing the former into his front pocket and the latter into the back of his underwear after a moment’s consideration. Just another night on the town. Just some hot older man who unfortunately couldn’t get it up. It wasn’t a big deal.</p><p>Levi gave the bed a longing look, then let himself out the door and started the long walk back home. He stuck his thumb out as cars passed, but it didn’t particularly bother him when no one stopped.</p><p>He’d had worse.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Suicide (referenced), Code Names, Secret Identities, Undercover</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natalie dropped behind the driver’s seat of the squad car, groaning softly and pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, Brock paused his studious pecking at the laptop’s keyboard. “No dice?” he guessed.</p><p>“Mason Jones was our most likely candidate and he was in a completely different part of the state for the entire week around Christina Wolcott’s death. Not everyone at the impound has a rock solid alibi--a good handful were home, alone, asleep--but without more proof we can’t exactly pull any of them in for involuntary questioning.”</p><p>“And, of course, their security footage only saves locally for a week. We’d need a warrant to get the security company to release older tapes.”</p><p>“A judge would probably grant it, there’s good reason to suspect that whoever killed her took the car from here and then brought it back, but…”</p><p>Brock nodded. “But a warrant’s going to take time and the security company doesn’t keep footage forever.”</p><p>“A month, according to the rep I spoke to on the phone. At this point, even an expedited warrant isn’t going to be fast enough.” Natalie made a face, dropping her forehead back to the steering wheel. “Our killer’s about to get away with it because people don’t know about digital storage.”</p><p>“Hey. Whoever did this won’t get away with it. We’ll find them, we’ll bring them in, we’ll get her justice.” He closed the laptop, tilting his head back. “You want me to drive back to the station?”</p><p>Natalie sat up slowly, looking him over. According to Tony, Brock wasn’t squeaky clean but so far there was nothing more suspicious on his computer than ‘unorganized case files and no porn.’ Going through his current digital life wasn’t getting them any closer to answers and for a guy who seemed to be on the up-and-up, his past was hard to dig into. “Nah, I can drive. Wanna stop and get coffee on the way?”</p><p>He laughed briefly. “Only if you’re buying. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but coffee and I part ways far too often for me to spend money on it.”</p><p>It was hard to associate the decent human being next to her with someone who had been cold-blooded enough to help cover up a cop suicide for political reasons. Maybe he <em> had </em> been pressured into it. She could usually read people with barely a glance, but something about Brock was closed off, even to her. Buying him coffee wouldn’t open him up to her any more, but it was something that a partner would do. Show a little appreciation for being welcomed in so easily.</p><p>She could play the role.</p><p>Brock stopped in the lobby when they got back to the precinct, his coffee cup slowly lowering from his mouth. Natalie looked back over her shoulder, head tipping to the side curiously.</p><p>“We might be able to get a warrant fast enough. Stern, the judge from the third district, owes me a favor. Lemme make some phone calls.”</p><p>“Owes you a favor, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah, I babysit his kids.” Brock grinned, pulling his phone out and disappearing down a hallway.</p><p>Natalie rolled her eyes, heading down a different hall towards the office. Whatever ‘favor’ Judge Stern owed probably wasn’t on the up-and-up, if he didn’t want to make that call in their little office, on their station line. She made a mental note to get Tony to tap into Brock’s cell phone.</p><p>Her hand fell away from the door to their office, her breath holding in her lungs for a moment. Something was off. Something was--</p><p>Natalie grabbed for her gun as something pressed to the back of her head.</p><p>“You’re slipping, Nat.”</p><p>“Clint.”</p><p>“I mean it. Civilian life has got you smoothing out <em> all </em> your rough edges.”</p><p>She turned around slowly, punched the grinning man behind her in the shoulder. “I thought you were in Kaliningrad. How the hell did you find me?”</p><p>“I convinced my liason that I was owed a two week vacation. Which was way easier than finding you, so kudos to Natalie Rushman. But it <em> does </em> turn out that the <em> I </em> still stands for Intelligence.” He grinned and she punched his shoulder again. “Hey, I’m just here to visit. Maybe help out if you ask real nicely. That guy at the front desk, Wilson? <em> He </em> likes me.”</p><p>Natalie rolled her eyes, letting Clint pull her into a one-armed hug. It put her whole job at risk for him to be there, but she could grab dinner and catch up before sending him back to wherever the CIA had him hiding out. “You are a pain in my ass.”</p><p>“Live to serve.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I guess come on into my domain.” Not that the office was much more private than the empty hall just outside, but they’d both already said too much if there were any listening ears around. Natalie led him inside, clearing some files off a chair for him before taking her own seat. “How much do you know?”</p><p>“Natalie Rushman is the newly transferred detective in Philly PD sex crimes. Didn’t have time to look at anything else. Hey, as long as I’m here, I’m gonna go to the art museum and do the <em> Rocky </em> steps.”</p><p>“You do that--”</p><p>“Who’s this?” Brock’s voice from the door interrupted her and Natalie jumped, sending a quick, desperate look to Clint. He probably <em> wasn’t </em> using his real name, all things considered.</p><p>Clint stood, offering an easy grin. “Oh, you must be Brock. Natalie was just telling me about you, I’m her boyfriend, Cory Lambert.” He held out his hand and Natalie closed her eyes for a moment, before watching Brock’s face closely.</p><p>He looked thoughtful for a brief moment, quickly shaking Clint’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Can’t say she’s told me much about you, but then again, we’ve been a little focused on work.” Relaxed, casual, but still a little concerned. Did he remember her cover story, or was he more confused how someone got to their office without meeting them in the lobby? She couldn’t tell. Brock’s gaze tracked to her as he dropped Clint’s hand. “I got us that warrant, signed, sealed, and delivered. Burke’s on his way to get the tapes and Jackson down in the digital forensics cave will take a look at them as soon as he can.” His gaze flicked back to Clint, before he took a seat. “You don’t work for the paper, right, Cory? Because nothing you’re overhearing here is printable.”</p><p>Slowly, carefully, Natalie let out a breath, mentally relabeling Clint her best friend as Cory her boyfriend. She could do a cover on the fly, but she definitely didn’t have the same mastery of it as the CIA had given him.</p><p>“Nah, no worries there. I’m in market research. You know those Neilson ratings that say like, which shows are popular and how many people watched the Super Bowl? I analyze that data to come up with the numbers.” He sat down again, stretching his legs out in front of him. “It’s definitely not the thrill-a-minute job that you guys have, but I can do it from pretty much anywhere.”</p><p>“To be fair, a lot of our job is also analysis,” Natalie added in, carefully moving files on her desk. “And speaking of those tapes, I’d like to take a look at them when we get copies.”</p><p>“Burke’ll let us know when he’s back, I’m sure they won’t go any further down Jackson’s list if we snag them for a day or two.” He looked between them, letting out a slow exhale. “Hey, if you two want to get out of here, don’t let me stop you. Until Burke gets back with the tapes we’re dead-ended on our only open case and I can handle anything else that comes in. Not like I’m gonna rat you to the chief for skipping out early on a Friday because your boyfriend came to visit.”</p><p>Natalie watched his face, before giving him a tentative smile. “I owe you one. Come on, Cory, let’s see if you can beat me up the art museum steps.” She grabbed Cory’s hand, leading him quickly out of the office.</p><p>That had been a pretty blatant attempt to get rid of her and usually she wouldn’t have fallen for it, but… Tony would let her know if Brock was actually suspicious. And she could rip ‘Cory’ up one side and down the other for using the boyfriend cover once they were somewhere private.</p>
<hr/><p>It took three hours for Brock to figure out why his Bullshit Detector had been sounding the alarm while meeting Natalie’s boyfriend. What about Cory Lambert had put him off? He hadn’t had much focus on that, not with the things he had to take care of once she was gone.</p><p>Burke came back with the tapes within thirty minutes and Brock snagged them before they could go down to the digital forensics lab. He found an empty office with a computer, logged in, and scrolled through the tape. An hour and a half later, he had the answers he needed, had typed up a preliminary report, and had included a few notes to Jackson. Brock dropped the tapes off at the lab just as Jackson was leaving, waving him off for the weekend. It could hold until Monday.</p><p>His own workday was nearly over, everything wrapped up neatly once Natalie was gone. Which brought his thoughts circling back to her, back to who had been in their office once he’d finished his phone call with Stern.</p><p>Cory Lambert, her boyfriend.</p><p>
  <em> “Left my ex with my engagement ring and a note that said don’t find me.” </em>
</p><p>Was Cory a new boyfriend, then? Since she’d started working with him, they’d been pretty wrapped up in the Wolcott case, both putting in long hours. And outside of that… he could get a good read on people, usually. Nothing about Cory and Natalie seemed new. He’d have just as easily believed they were long time friends as dating. He knew the look of a woman with a new boyfriend, the typical behaviors… And he knew the look of a bad breakup and a stalker ex and danger. Natalie had neither of those.</p><p>He wasn’t from Philly, either. Brock had heard something about ‘as long as I’m here’ before he’d gotten into the office. Nothing about Cory Lambert and Natalie Rushman made sense.</p><p>Had she lied to him before? Why?</p><p>Abruptly, he shoved back from his desk, barging out of the office and down the hall. It was almost five, if Sitwell was gone--</p><p>Brock grabbed the head of Internal Affairs just as he was closing his office door, shoved the man inside and slammed the door behind him. “Rushman’s file. Now.”</p><p>Sitwell took a step away, tugging newly formed wrinkles out of his suit. “I don’t have it.”</p><p>“You’re Internal Affairs.”</p><p>“And her transfer here was not under my purview. Klein was her transfer liaison.”</p><p>Brock grit his teeth together, trying to parse this information. “You let them put her in my department without looking into her?”</p><p>“Asking too many questions would raise suspicion, Detective. You should know that, it’s part of your job. And while I don’t have her files on hand, I <em> did </em> look into Natalie Rushman before her transfer from Peoria.”</p><p>Another resounding <em> click </em> as misinformation settled into place. “From where?”</p><p>“Peoria, Illinois.”</p><p>He swallowed audibly, slumping back against the door. “Jasper. She told me she was from fucking Portland. Oregon.”</p><p>It wasn’t even satisfying to see Sitwell’s impeccably neat office become a mess as he dropped his briefcase and papers scattered everywhere.</p>
<hr/><p>Over cheap take-out in her equally cheap apartment, Natalie let herself drop, let herself be Natasha again, sitting on the couch next to Clint. She needed this, she needed a breather from the dual stress of her real job and her cover job. Her chopsticks darted out, snagging a baby corn from Clint’s tray and ferrying it to her mouth.</p><p>“So why’re you really in Philly? I know you’re not visiting me.”</p><p>Clint huffed, lifting a snap pea off the corner of her container and swallowing it. “Natasha you are my <em> best friend</em>--”</p><p>“Spare me.”</p><p>“I’m in the middle of an op, same as you. The Kaliningrad job went sour back in December and my target fled the country. Took my contact at Russian Intelligence with her but we lost touch around the new year. I tracked Doctor Roza Petrovna to Philly, finally, and when I got wind that you were also here, I thought it’d be a good chance to do a little cooperative law enforcement. I’m liaising through the state police because it’s pretty much accepted that the corruption in this city goes all the way to the top.”</p><p>She nodded, slurping noodles. “Fury’s clean, he called in a favor with Danvers herself. Everyone else? Impossible to say.”</p><p>“Mayor Pierce is a fucking monster, I can tell you that. I touched down with a few contacts in the area, put out some feelers for Petrovna. Scored myself an invitation to the biggest afterparty no one talks about, Pierce’s private shindig next weekend.” He sighed, shaking his head. “She’s going to be there and I’m going to get my damn answers about my SVR contact. Just hoping that she doesn’t make me and run again.”</p><p>Natasha raised an eyebrow. “She made you in Kaliningrad?”</p><p>He shrugged. “Informants exist on all sides. She took off with my contact not long after we had a meeting. I can only hope that she doesn’t recognize me in a suit instead of a parka.”</p><p>Her chopsticks attacked his carton again, though this time he fought her off with his own. By the time their little battle was over, rice and noodles were all over the floor. “Just be safe, okay? I’d hate to outlive you and feel some sense of obligation to carry on your legacy.”</p><p>“Hey, don’t tell me to be safe. Danger is my middle name.”</p><p>Natasha snorted a laugh. “Your middle name is Francis.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Domestic Violence, Child Abuse, Attempted Child Murder, Suicide, Attempted Murder</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brock hadn't been so bone-tired since the days after Morrison's suicide. Even then, his efforts had been spread out over days, not mere hours.</p><p>Natalie Rushman was from Portland. It was right there in her file. Jasper swore up and down that her paperwork had said Peoria, and Brock was willing to believe him. It wasn't what <em> was </em> in her file that had sent half the precinct into a very quiet panic, but rather what <em> wasn't</em>. Over the years the Philly PD had pulled people in from all over--he was from New York, Rollins was from Chicago, on and on--and they had two people who had come over from Portland before Rushman. Neither of whom had heard of any of her references.</p><p>It hadn’t looked good, but it had Fury’s stamp of approval on it and that meant there was nothing they could do without bringing it to him; not a prospect they were enthusiastic about. Brock had finally given up on the hunt, gone home and dropped into bed with his shoes still on.</p><p>Pierce would take care of it before things spiraled more out of control than they already were. It wasn’t something they could afford to stress about.</p><p>He rolled over, staring out the window into the late spring night. What mattered now was playing his part. Nothing was different with Natalie. He could handle that.</p><p>Brock hauled himself to his feet eventually, going to shower, make dinner, act like a normal human being for a while. His mind tracked idly across the weekend as he watched the microwave spin leftover take out. He could go to the bar with a couple of the guys… He could go pick up a prostitute and--</p><p>Those thoughts he shut down, turning and pounding his fist against the wall for a moment. It wasn’t worth it. He could wait. There were always prostitutes at Pierce’s parties, the high class kind that would actually work to satisfy him. Hell, the girl he’d gotten a room with at the Christmas party had managed to finally take his mind off of Morrison; a real feat, less than a week after his old partner’s death.</p><p>Better to stay in. Better to eat reheated take out and drink beer from his fridge and watch something on TV. Something that would take his mind off the entire mess of work, of cases that should have been open and shut and partners that shouldn’t have been assigned to him.</p><p>He’d have to be Detective Rumlow again soon enough. Better to just be Brock while he could.</p>
<hr/><p>The buzz of her phone pulled her from sleep, a quiet mumble next to her in bed cementing where she was and what was going on--Natalie Rushman, newly appointed detective with Philly PD Sex Crimes unit, currently sleeping next to her boyfriend Cory Lambert. Right. Okay.</p><p>“Rushman,” she answered as the phone buzzed again, fighting down a yawn and looking at the clock. Four in the morning, this had to be important.</p><p>“Tell me who your favorite person in the world is.”</p><p>Correction, this <em> better </em> be important. “Tony,” she started, moving out of the bedroom and closing the door.</p><p>“Aw, you’re so sweet to me.”</p><p>“Tony it’s four in the morning.”</p><p>“Wait it is? They don’t give me windows and my computer desktop is synced up to London.”</p><p>“<em>Tony</em>.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to grind out the growing headache. “What do you need?”</p><p>“You want the creepy news first or the deeply unsettling news?” At least he sounded serious now. “Because I’ve got both.”</p><p>“Surprise me, make me guess which is which, whatever. Just tell me you have something.”</p><p>“Okay, first up then, your buddy Brock Rumlow. You ever watch <em> Criminal Minds</em>? We all agree Morgan’s hot, right? Yeah, of course, but actually I’m talking about Hotch here--also hot, for the record, I’ve got a thing for men in suits, makes working for the FBI real fun--”</p><p>Natalie ground her teeth audibly. “Tony. Focus.”</p><p>“‘<em>Some people grow up to become killers and some people grow up to catch them</em>,’ Criminal Minds season one, episode nine. It’s a good episode, really, and I’m paraphrasing, cutting the quote short, but you know.”</p><p>“Relevance?”</p><p>Tony exhaled slowly, a low whistle in his voice. “Brock Rumlow’s got a ton of sealed records from when he was a kid, mostly relating to the foster system. So I went back further, and his mom had an ER visit list a mile long. Poor woman ran into a lot of doorknobs, if you know what I mean. So they stop up around six months before she goes in for childbirth, it’s a bouncing baby boy, hooray. Two years and the Rumlow family is the picture of happiness. Until her little boy goes to the ER with a broken arm. She says he fell climbing a tree, at age two. Doctors <em> don’t </em> say that they know what a broken arm from a fall looks like compared to a fracture from child abuse.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ.”</p><p>“Oh, it gets worse, but I’ll fast forward. Age eight, things are bad, I’m talking CPS bad, talking they’re going to put him into foster care bad. And his mom knows this, of course, and knows what’ll happen to her if that happens to him, and knows how shitty the foster system in New York City was back then. So, from the minds of the Bronx’s finest, she takes a whole bunch of sleeping pills and then tries to drown her son in the bathtub.”</p><p>Natalie closed her eyes, feeling her way to sit down on the couch. “How close?”</p><p>“He wasn’t breathing when his dad busted the door down. Performed CPR until paramedics got there. Mom went on the way to the hospital and dad tried to say that she’d been the abusive one and all that. I guess it’s lucky for him that they didn’t believe that, they found a suicide note from his mother detailing what she’d done and why.”</p><p>She was quiet, soaking it in. Brock’s trauma didn’t get them any closer to their actual goals here, after all. It wasn’t her business what he’d been through as a kid, especially when he seemed to mostly be above the board now. “So, how does that get worse?”</p><p>“Brock Rumlow takes after his dad. He put an ex girlfriend in the hospital after she tried to break up with him. I can’t find a record of Vanessa Merlot anywhere after that, but I’m guessing it’s because she changed her name and moved as far away from him as she could get.”</p><p>
  <em> “She reminds me of Ness, a bit. Where she coulda ended up.” </em>
</p><p>An involuntary shudder ran through her. “He have anything else?”</p><p>“A few petty teenage crimes and then the big one, she’s not the first person he put into the hospital. He got into a fistfight with some guy from school just after turning eighteen. A judge made him the offer, join the military or go to prison because he damn near killed this kid. Guess they thought the military would straighten him out, but I don’t think it worked. He got a dishonorable for the Vanessa Merlot thing even though she never pressed charges, then got himself a job with the Philly PD. Wrap your head around that one.”</p><p>“Who appointed him?”</p><p>“The chief at the time was a man named Schmidt. Retired eight years ago and moved to Germany, of all places.”</p><p>Natalie chewed her lip, musing all this over. “So… what’s the creepy news?” That had to be the deeply unsettling news. It <em> had to</em>.</p><p>“Philly PD has open case files for five murders of prostitutes who died of ligature strangulation, dating back to late December and ending with your Wolcott case. Two in homicide, one in trafficking, one that landed under robbery for some reason, and your sex crimes case.” Tony sighed and Natalie could picture him, probably sprawled out on the floor and staring at the ceiling. The man hated chairs for some reason. "One of Vanessa Merlot's more note-worthy injuries was a ligature mark around her neck. She says he strangled her with a belt."</p><p>She worked this over, her foot starting to jiggle. “That’s a hell of a jump to make, Tony.”</p><p>“I’m just sharing facts.”</p><p>“Has anyone connected these cases?”</p><p>“One source, a little newspaper called the <em> Philly Free Press</em>, has an article about Wolcott that at least <em> implies </em> there’s a connection between all of them. No idea who wrote the article, though.”</p><p>Natalie closed her eyes, a voice echoing in her head. <em> “Is it true that this is the fifth murder this year with an aspect of sexual violence to it?” </em> She could hear the question, but she couldn’t place a face to it. Whoever it was, they were probably her best lead for… But was she really considering it? She was there to deal with corruption, not to find a serial killer. “Keep the deeply unsettling under wraps for now. It could just be coincidence. Thanks for the updates, Tony, it’s gonna make having to sit across from the guy real awkward Monday morning.”</p><p>“Glad to be of se--” Natalie ended the call, dropping her phone onto the counter and going back to the bedroom. She curled up beside her pseudo-boyfriend, pressing her back firmly against his. </p><p>“How bad?” he mumbled, haphazardly tossing the blanket back over her as she sighed.</p><p>Natalie stared at the clock, well aware that she wasn’t going to get back to sleep before her alarm went off. “Real bad.”</p>
<hr/><p>He should have known better.</p><p>Not five minutes into Monday and Brock had a full plate. He barely looked up when Natalie came into the office, only pausing long enough to shove some paperwork in her general direction. Jackson had decided to expedite their footage review request. “James Houston is in interrogation room three waiting for us to talk to him about the night Christina Ann Wolcott was murdered. His claim is that he was home sleeping but security footage shows him taking Felix Gates’ car out of the lot just after sundown. He got picked up coming into work this morning.”</p><p>“Has he lawyered up?”</p><p>“Not yet. We’ve also got four sexual assault reports that need follow-up.” He groaned, rubbing his temples. “I hate weekends, the college kids all lose control.”</p><p>Natalie hummed for a moment, passing the paper back. “Let Houston sweat on it for a few hours. Where are these follow-ups?”</p><p>“Two in campus housing at UPenn, one in an apartment near Temple, one attending one of those tech colleges, but she’s currently in the hospital. All four complainants are female.”</p><p>Sitting down, skimming files, Natalie let out a sigh. “I’ll talk to the girl in the hospital and the one at Temple if you want to meet up with the two on-campus.”</p><p>He cocked an eyebrow, unable to keep back a brief grin. “Willing to run all over town first thing on a Monday? You must have had a good weekend.” He laughed softly as her cheeks flushed, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m not <em> that </em> interested in your love life, don’t worry. I’ll hitch a ride up to the campus with Martinez, that’s her usual patrol route and… well, I was gonna say that having her with me might help the complainants want to talk, but she’s got what Tolvey calls ‘big dyke energy’ so maybe not.”</p><p>“I’m sure campus PD or the counselling center will be happy to provide that calming female presence that you and Martinez lack. Also please tell me you’ve never said those words to anyone else.” Natalie smiled back, shaking her head. “You’re way too old to get that joke.”</p><p>Brock huffed, taking another swallow of coffee. “I ain’t that old. Anyways, we’ll meet back up after we’re done and put a scumbag behind bars for murder, yeah?”</p><p>“Sounds like a plan, Rumlow.”</p><p>And like that, it was easy between them. A normal week. Start proceedings on Houston and leave it to the lawyers. Brock sighed as he finalized his report on the Wolcott case, signing it off and forwarding it to the next person that would have to handle it. Whatever ulterior motive Natalie had--and she had one, too many of the right people had been involved in her placement for it to be clean--would come to light and be taken care of in due time. He didn't have to worry about it. Didn't have to act irrationally.</p><p>Routine police work, the exact sort of thing that he needed. A closed case, one and done, neatly locking away any links between the Wolcott murder and others. Sitwell would take care of the <em> Free Press </em> article that weekend. Brock could relax and look forward to the coming days.</p><p>He glanced over at Natalie, working diligently at her own computer, and sat back in his chair, opening up recent reports from other departments. Impounded cars, arrested prostitutes… Jack’s top contender was still his personal pick. Brock didn’t see a reason that would change.</p><p>He jotted down the information he’d need, quickly closing the files and tucking the note into his pocket.</p><p>Saturday night couldn’t come soon enough.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Prostitution, Drug Use, Crossdressing, Implied Sexual Situations</p><p><b>Major Warning:</b> Consent Issues; Dubious Consent; Coerced Consent</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bucky closed his hand around his phone, thinking about the three texts he’d sent Steve before getting into the car. <em>Damn that’s a nice ride.</em> <em>Oh shit, pulling over.</em> And the obligatory picture of the license plate. New York plates, the old blue and white kind he remembered seeing around growing up. Before they’d introduced those orange and black monstrosities. Before he and Steve had left Brooklyn for the greener pastures of Philly. </p><p>Some greener pastures. At least in New York he’d been able to work. Before he went off to war and got his head almost blown off and screwed back on wrong.</p><p>Those three text messages were what would save him, he hoped. Steve had insisted that it was necessary when they were working. That they go to the cops--to some cop Steve apparently <em> knew</em>, the little punk--if there was a problem.</p><p>So what if the problem <em> was </em> the cops?</p><p>He took a step backwards as the other man in the motel room came out of the bathroom, shaking his head before his brain caught the familiarity. “Hey, I don’t do doubles--”</p><p>“Relax.” The john behind him hadn’t moved, solid chest against Bucky’s back, hands coming up to grip his arms just over the elbow. Reflexively, Bucky released his hold on his phone and let it rest in his pocket. “We ain’t lookin’ for that.”</p><p>The big guy by the bathroom smirked and Bucky’s stomach did an interesting series of flips and loops. “Maybe <em> you </em> ain’t, Brock.”</p><p>“You know the rules, no pre-gaming the party favors.” Warm breath in his ear, a low voice. “You’re gonna be treated like a princess tonight, don’t worry. You make the right people happy and your arrest record disappears. Make’em <em> very </em> happy and maybe you don’t have to earn money on your knees for a while.” The hands on his arms squeezed for a moment, before letting go.</p><p>Bucky stayed stock still, breathing unsteadily. He licked his lips, darting a glance over his shoulder. “I… what do you want me to do?”</p><p>The john, Brock apparently, flashed him a quick smile. “Nothing too hard. Difficult. You dress up and look pretty. If Pierce likes you the most, you rock his world. If he doesn’t, you make someone else happy. Maybe multiple someones. Easy night, all things considered. Everyone that’ll touch you has been vetted, is clean, won’t try anything funny.” Somehow, in the moments of soothing words, he’d guided Bucky to the bed, sat him down and settled in beside him. “Of course, if you’re <em> not </em> interested then you did just give a dollar amount to a cop. And we’ll also find some amphetamines on your person. You know, you don’t get paid for blowjobs in prison.”</p><p>“That’s coercion, it’s hardly consent.”</p><p>Brock shrugged and spread his hands. “The option of refusal is still there. Jack and I can go get someone else.”</p><p>The bigger guy, Jack, shifted, clearing his throat. “After party starts in an hour.”</p><p>“James is gonna say yes. Aren’t you?”</p><p>Bucky swallowed hard, looking from the shining dark eyes on him to the man standing, looming, in the bathroom doorway. “What’s the payout?”</p><p>“Four grand minimum. More if you impress.”</p><p>He forced himself to breathe, to think of the stack of bills labeled <em> final notice</em>. To think of Steve, shivering as they tried to survive nights below forty without turning on the heat. Four grand wouldn’t solve their problems, but it’d be a start. “Two grand cash at the end of the job. Compensation for surprising me with multiple clients. After that four hundred a night until it’s paid up. The mayor can swing that, right?”</p><p>If his piecing the situation together surprised them, neither cop showed it. Brock laughed after a moment, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Deal. Now come on, time to get dressed. You want to get high on anything before we go?” He winked, somehow more lewd than when he’d been talking about sex. “First hit is free.”</p><p>There was no way Bucky was making it through the three ring circus he’d just signed up for sober. He nodded slowly, refusing to look at the outfit Jack was laying out for him to change into. “What have you got?”</p><p>“Step into my pharmacy.” Brock opened a drawer beside the bed and Bucky hissed in a breath. “Evidence never misses a few things here and there. You wanna be more into it or less aware of it?”</p><p>That was an easy one. Bucky leaned forward, picking up different items and inspecting them. “I don’t want to remember a damn thing about tonight.”</p>
<hr/><p>Parties weren’t his favorite scene, but Brock made the mandatory exception for Pierce’s shindigs. There were only two or three a year, anyways. And if he was being honest, there wasn’t much to gripe about with the warm body on his lap. James Barnes might have been too high to remember anything beyond getting dressed in the motel room, but Brock wasn’t likely to forget the tickle of long hair against his jawline or warm skin under his palms any time soon. No one was supposed to touch the merchandise until Pierce made his decisions, but no one would notice his hand inching under the skirt they’d put James in.</p><p>“My, my,” a voice behind him startled him, but Brock knew better than to jump or look guiltily over his shoulder. He moved his hand back down to the couch gradually, tilting his head back. “What a pretty piece you’ve brought this year.”</p><p>He must have been drunk, a few extra seconds to piece together who this woman was and why she was so familiar. Brock grinned after a moment, reaching back to take her hand, kissing her fingers lightly. “Doctor Petrovna. Good to see you again.”</p><p>She moved around the couch to sit next to him, leaning in and grasping James’ chin, tilting his head this way and that. “Resorting to dosing your offerings, Officer Rumlow?”</p><p>“Not at all, he’s perfectly coherent. James,” his voice sharpened and the whore on his lap sat up a little, blinking rapidly. “Don’t be rude, greet the good doctor.”</p><p>James shifted, taking in a slow breath before ducking his head. “Hello, ma’am…”</p><p>“I suppose you think you’ll win favor with this one, but I’m not so certain… I hear Strucker brought twins.” She smiled, patting James’ cheek lightly.</p><p>“What’d you bring?” Brock asked, guiding James carefully back down to lean against his chest. He was barely coherent enough to stand, better to let him rest up until he needed to perform.</p><p>“I forwent a gift this year. You understand, of course, after what happened to Yelena at Christmas. She was set to sell for quite a high price and I don’t want to risk another of my girls being… prematurely indisposed.” Doctor Petrovna shrugged, her eyes tracking across the room. “I understand that the police still consider her to be an open case. They never learned her identity, even.”</p><p>Brock frowned, taking a drink and following her gaze, nearly spitting his whiskey back into his glass. He knew that mess of sandy brown hair, was the <em> hell </em> was Rushman’s data analyst boyfriend doing at Pierce’s party, nevermind the after party. He felt tension claw into his muscles, tensing every part of him at once.</p><p>There was something different about Petrovna’s posture, her face, when he looked back at her. She stepped away slightly, taking another swallow of her own drink. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your oh-so-thrilling conversation. Try not to leave bruises, hm?” She glanced significantly toward James’ lap and Brock slowly forced his hand to untense. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been clenching down on James’ thigh, hadn’t heard the little whines and whimpers against his neck.</p><p>“It was good to see you again, Doctor,” Brock bit out, soothing a hand up James’ side. “Enjoy your evening.” He let out a breath as she walked away, trailing his fingers back down and brushing over the man’s thigh again. Fuck, that would probably leave bruises, he could feel little crescent-shaped indents from his nails, even. “You’re fine. Just keep being a good boy and I’ll dose you again before you’re sent off to a room.”</p><p>“What happened to… to… to Christmas?” James slurred out, squirming to sit up enough to look at Brock.</p><p>He shrugged, reaching to the side table and lifting his glass, taking a drink before offering it to the man on his lap. “She died. Or was killed. I’m not sure, it’s not my case.”</p><p>James frowned, allowing the glass to be tipped against his mouth again and taking another drink. “Was it… was it like…”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re perfectly safe, it was just an unfortunate coincidence. Now, come on. This stuff works better if it interacts with alcohol. Makes you unaware of what’s even happening to you.” Brock forced another swallow on him before taking the glass away, finishing it off himself. “You said yourself, you don’t want to remember a damn thing about tonight.”</p><p>He let James settle back against him, let his hands resume their slow wandering. Jack had picked the outfit, had been the one to suggest really dolling him up, and Brock had to give credit where it was due--James looked damned good. Not quite like a girl, his shoulders were too broad and his legs too hairy, but the dress still worked on him. The most amazing part, in Brock’s opinion, was that it <em> fit</em>.</p><p>They’d rounded out the look with thigh high stockings and ballet slippers, long ribbons that Jack had studiously laced up James’ calves while Brock was dosing him the first time. Done up his hair in twin tails with ribbons, the same soft blue and baby pink as the dress and shoes. Make-up had been a hotly debated topic over more than a few beers, the two of them agreeing that it would probably <em> help </em> but neither willing to figure out just <em> how</em>. As far as Brock was concerned, contouring was basically witchcraft.</p><p>His hand trailed up further, just barely touched what lay beneath the short skirt. James had balked at them and Brock had too, if he was being honest, but Jack had shut them both up by explaining that it was <em> men’s </em> lingerie (whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean) and would be just fine. Whatever it was, it was silky smooth with a lacy trim and Brock found himself enjoying the feel of it under his hand.</p><p>“Are you enjoying my party, Detective?”</p><p>This time there was no stopping the guilty jolt, the unsubtle flutter of James’ skirt as Brock dropped his hand. He looked up at Alexander Pierce and tried his best at a smile. God, it felt fake. “Quite a bit. Your parties never disappoint, sir.”</p><p>Pierce took a seat across from him, sitting forward and letting his hands drop between his knees. His eyes flicked to James for a moment, before centering on Brock again. “Seems you’re making impressions with all the right people, lately. Solved a murder within a month, took another nasty person off our streets. And, according to one of the whispers in my ear, neatly averted possible FBI involvement in our fair city.”</p><p>Brock shrugged noncommittally, biting his tongue against the first words that wanted to come out of his mouth. He wasn’t the best at political games, but that was the only thing Pierce knew. “It wasn’t a solo task. The department finally hired a replacement for Morrison, Natalie Rushman. Chosen by Chief Fury himself, from what I understand.”</p><p>Pierce raised an eyebrow, waving someone over and taking two glasses of amber liquid from a tray. He passed one to Brock, sipping his own slowly. “How well do you know your new partner?”</p><p>“Well enough to know she’s lying.” He took a drink, savoring the burn, before looking to Pierce again. “It’s not something easy to pinpoint, but her story has holes in it. The kind of holes that aren’t covered up without a few greased palms, something we all know Fury wouldn’t allow.” Plus there was her boyfriend, if he even was that, mingling at Pierce’s afterparty. If he got the chance to corner Cory Lambert, Brock was going to start asking more than a few questions… But he wouldn’t bring Lambert up to Pierce himself. No need to ruin a nice night for the man.</p><p>“Very true. I seem to recall Schmidt having to grease more than a few palms to hide your own… shall we call it an unsavory past.” Pierce’s sharp eyes slid to James, looking him up and down slowly. “The ribbons are a nice touch. I could do without the drugs, however. Petrovna has been working on an antitoxin for benzodiazepine, bring him to the master bedroom, I’ll tell her to meet you there. I think I may have found my favorite tonight.” He nodded shortly, standing up and leaving the room.</p><p>Brock helped James to his feet, guiding his stumbling steps from the lounge they’d spent most of the evening in. Up one flight of stairs, down a hallway and through an ornate set of double doors. He settled James onto the bed, brushing his hair out of his face gently. “Looks like you’ll be remembering tonight after all.”</p><p>A hand grabbed his arm as he turned away, pulling him back. James stared, his eyes wide, searching. “What… favorite…?”</p><p>“It means you’ll have a hundred percent of Pierce’s personal attention. Try to impress, it’ll reflect well on the rest of us. He’ll have someone send you home when he’s done with you. Might not be in the morning.”</p><p>“Might not be at all,” Doctor Petrovna’s voice added in as she opened the door, shutting it behind her. “I knew you were resorting to dosing. Is he going to fight?”</p><p>“Not if he knows what’s good for him.” Brock pulled James’ arm out straight, holding it steady as Petrovna prepped a needle and injected something clear into him. “How long does it take?”</p><p>“Not very, but he won’t start forming coherent memories for a few more minutes.” She turned to him, her eyes sharp. “You killed Yelena, didn’t you? And the other four since then.”</p><p>Brock frowned, dropping James’ arm. “I have no idea what you’re--”</p><p>“Cut the coy act, Rumlow. I know you went to her room at the Christmas party and I know she was dead in an alley in the morning.” Her gaze flicked up and down him quickly, cutting through his facade of upstanding in a flash. “How many others?”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter, they’re whores.”</p><p>“<em>How many</em>?”</p><p>His teeth grit together, eyes darting to James. Still out of it, it seemed. “Four. After her. Don’t worry, though, the best detective in the precinct was assigned to the latest murder and I already solved it.”</p><p>“Convenient. Yelena was worth six hundred thousand, you know. She worked for the Russian government. Infiltrated and tried to shut me down, along with an American agent who just so happens to be here tonight. Perhaps I should thank you for putting him in my line of sight.” Petrovna smiled, cold and humorless. “You cost me a lot of money, but you kept Pierce from finding out how close I let a spy get to him, so I suppose that makes us even.”</p><p>“You could still thank me.” He was pushing his luck and he knew it. Doctor Roza Petrovna did not fuck around, according to everything Brock had heard about her.</p><p>“I am. The American agent that worked with Yelena was named Clint Barton, with the CIA. He has a friend, sources tell me, who is working here in Philly under an assumed name. She’s a new member of the police department, recently welcomed into precinct five’s sex crimes division.” She turned to the door, her low heels clicking. “Not that you would know anyone like that.”</p><p>Brock watched her go with his jaw nearly on the floor, blood rushing in his ears. He knew something was wrong with Natalie Rushman, with her story, with her background, but--FBI. The exact people they'd been trying to avoid. How the <em>hell</em> had Fury gotten the FBI involved without Pierce's notice? Were they looking for this so-called serial killer, for him? Or were they after something bigger? Was the CIA connected to this or was Cory Lambert--Clint Barton--looking for something else? Too many questions, too few answers.</p><p>All this flashed through his mind in a moment before he turned, quickly attaching the cuff on Pierce's intricate headboard to James' wrist. The key was probably in the bedside table, not his business. He left without a word, despite the protests of the whore on the bed.</p><p>He needed a much stronger drink than what he'd been sharing with James all evening.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Paranoia, Kidnapping, Gun Violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Of all the things Maria Hill expected to find in the <em> Free Press </em> on Sunday morning, an extended retraction of and apology for her article on Christina Ann Wolcott was definitely at the bottom of the list. She read it twice, looked at her mug of tea suspiciously, and read it again.</p><p>Coulson had dismantled nearly her entire story with retractions and “upon further review” and such carefully couched language that implied they’d been given unverified information from an unreliable source.</p><p>She had her phone to her ear, listening to the other side ring, before she’d even blinked.</p><p>“Coulson.”</p><p>The tirade of words that wanted to flood from her--<em>you said you would do the right thing</em>--dried up in a moment. Phil sounded exhausted, not just tired but beat down. Maria swallowed, taking another drink of tea. “What happened?”</p><p>“The police solved the murder. It wasn’t connected to any others. My source was fed false information.”</p><p>“Do they know the writer? Or where the information was sourced from?”</p><p>Phil sighed on the line and Maria heard the distinct squeak of his chair. “No and no. Not for lack of trying, but let’s be honest, they can’t touch that without a lawsuit. And despite what Pierce throws around at his parties, I’m in a more capable position than the city if it comes to legal measures.”</p><p>She took a drink of tea, looking at the retraction article again. “It’s not over just because they strong-armed you into this, Phil. Too many people deserve justice for it to fizzle out here.”</p><p>“If I were having this conversation with anyone else, I’d say that it <em> was </em> over… But I know you too well to think you’ll give up. Just be careful. Sometimes I think we’re well past <em> 1984</em>.”</p><p>There wasn’t anything else to say. She hung up, sitting back and looking at the ceiling. Who could be trusted? No one in the police department, that was for sure. There was corruption there, no doubt, the things Phil <em> didn’t </em> say on the phone were all but screaming it. Kate Carter was in the wind, her cell phone disconnected, her email address issuing bouncebacks.</p><p>Maria turned back to her computer desk, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her keyboard. Rumlow had worked the Wolcott case, but he was no innocent little lamb. Who had he been working with? His last partner had been murdered, something gang-related, almost a perfect set up for Pierce to push through new regulations that gave the police more power to detain and question those suspected of gang activity. Rumlow wasn’t working alone, there was a redheaded woman next to him at the Wolcott murder scene.</p><p>She typed a few things, pulling up the police department website and skimming backwards through press announcements. There, early in May, a welcome announcement for a new crop of officers, including Detective Natalie Rushman, transferred from Portland and joining the Sex Crimes division.</p><p>She flipped to a clean page of one of the many steno notebooks she kept on hand and started to write.</p>
<hr/><p>The sense of deja vu was starting to get annoying.</p><p>Steve paced the length of the apartment rather than sitting curled on the couch, making a circuit from the worn carpet in the living room to the faded linoleum in the kitchen and back again. He turned his phone in his hand, checking constantly for a new notification of a text or call from Bucky. The only thing that changed was the slowly depleting battery level.</p><p>Had Bucky been arrested again? It was entrapment if he was, right? The texts that he’d sent Steve had seemed to indicate a regular john, not an on duty cop. Could cops make arrests when off duty?</p><p>He would have called by now, right? They didn’t have anything to sell for bail money--well, besides the obvious--but Bucky still would have called to say he was okay. It was almost seven in the morning, bright June sunshine coming in the dingy windows of the apartment. There had to be a phone call coming soon.</p><p>At nine, Steve gave up that hope. He turned his pacing sharply and went into the bedroom, digging through the sagging dresser that held most of his clothes. Somewhere near the bottom was a pair of jeans and hopefully he hadn’t washed them since sticking Officer Sam Wilson’s card into the pocket. Steve dug them out, shaking out the wad of denim and searching through the pockets. He pulled the card free with a huff of relief, turning it around in his hand.</p><p>It took another hour to work up the nerve to call the number, his fingers shaking and fumbling as he dialed. He couldn’t even pace while on the phone, had to sit on the bed within reach of the outlet, keep his almost dead battery from giving up completely.</p><p>“Philadelphia Police Department, this is Officer Wilson.”</p><p>“Sam,” Steve rasped out, the word almost inaudible. He forced himself to swallow, to clear his throat, and tried again. “Sam. It’s Steve, uh, Rogers. You gave me your card a while back, about--”</p><p>“Steve.” Even over the phone, he could feel the warmth in Sam’s voice, soothing over the undercurrent of concern. “Is everything okay?”</p><p>“Bucky didn’t come home last night. Again. Is he--you know, there?”</p><p>Faintly, he could hear typing, then an aside conversation--<em>”Are all the reports from last night in? Thanks Gina. No it’s fine.”</em>--before Sam’s voice was louder again. “He didn’t get picked up last night, by us or by another precinct. You two been doing what I suggested?”</p><p>“Yeah, um, hang on.” Steve pulled his phone from his ear, opening up his messages with Bucky. He scrolled up past his own messages and pictures, stopping at the last three Bucky had sent him. Two texts and an image, all just before midnight. “He got picked up and took a picture of the plate, um, New York 34758 MA. It’s the old New York ones, the blue and white.”</p><p>More quiet keyboard clacking, before Sam audibly inhaled. “Those are commercial plates. Did he say what the vehicle was?”</p><p>“Just said it was a nice car. Do you know who they belong to?”</p><p>“We don’t have access to that, we’d have to contact the cops up in New York. But… Do you think you can come down to the precinct? There’s…” Sam’s voice faltered for a moment, before his tone became clipped, professional. “I can’t take your report over the phone, sir. You’ll have to come in and speak to one of our detectives in person.”</p><p>“Sam?”</p><p>“Yes, one this afternoon is fine. I’ll make sure someone is available to speak to you.”</p><p>“One this afternoon, okay.” Steve strained, trying to hear whatever had changed Sam’s tone so much. As far as he could tell, there was nothing. “I’ll see you then?”</p><p>“Thank you for your understanding, sir. Have a nice day.” Sam hung up and Steve dropped his phone aside. He laid back on the bed, turning to bury his face in the thin pillows.</p><p>“Whatever that was about…”</p><p>One o’clock. The police station. He could do this. He had to do this.</p><p>By 12:30, Steve had reconsidered it at least a dozen times. Something about Sam’s change in tone had put his wind up, and dammit, he didn’t know <em> why</em>. Bucky was missing, going to the cops was the right thing to do. Sam was someone he could trust and Sam would make sure that whatever other cop he spoke to could also be trusted. He wasn’t naive enough to think that <em> all </em> cops could be trusted, especially not after some of the things Bucky had said about his arrest last month, the few bits and pieces Steve had pulled out of him like rotten teeth.</p><p>The real question was, what if they found Bucky dead in an alley somewhere? What if the extra care they’d taken meant nothing?</p><p>No, he wouldn’t think about that. He <em> couldn’t </em> think about that if he didn’t want to have a panic attack.</p><p>Walking into precinct five was enough of a panic attack on its own. Steve approached the front desk, rocking back on his heels and looking around. “Um, hi, I was… looking for Officer Wilson? He said to come down at one today.”</p><p>The man behind the desk looked him up and down briefly, before shrugging. “Nothing on Wilson’s docket. You sure you got the right day?”</p><p>“Yeah, I--”</p><p>“Steve!” Sam’s voice rang out, pulling his attention away from the desk. “Right this way, I was just confirming a few details with someone.”</p><p>Steve hurried after him down the hall, looking to either side. “Sam what the hell is going on?”</p><p>“Not here,” Sam hissed back, clapping a hand on his shoulder briefly. “Detective Rushman will take your statement. Nothing’s changed since this morning?”</p><p>“Just my freakin’ heart rate.” Steve let himself be guided into a room, looking around slowly. Small conference table with four chairs, a camera in one corner and a mirror on one wall. “Isn’t this an interrogation room?”</p><p>“Only on TV. I mean, we use it for that, too, but it works just as well for filing statements and reports. The detective will be here in a minute and I’ll be on the other side of the mirror, observing.”</p><p>Steve sat down, folding his hands in front of him as Sam left. He tried to keep his breathing steady, to focus on keeping himself calm. He nearly jumped out of his skin as the door opened again, a redheaded woman walking into the room with a file in her hand.</p><p>“Mr. Rogers?”</p><p>“Just Steve, please. Mr. Rogers makes me think of men in sweaters.”</p><p>She smiled briefly, sitting down across from him. “Natalie Rushman, I’m a detective in the sex crimes division. I understand that your friend was soliciting last night and didn’t return after a client?”</p><p>“Yeah, more or less. Bucky got picked up for it a few weeks ago, so I called Sam to see if he was here again.”</p><p>Natalie nodded, jotting down notes on a piece of paper. “And to verify, he told you the license plate of the last vehicle that he got into?”</p><p>“Sent me a picture. We’ve been doing that for a few weeks now, ever since that article in the <em> Free Press</em>.” He pulled his phone out, scrolling through the messages and showing her the picture. “Sam said something about having to call New York DMV to get the name of the owner.”</p><p>“Typically, but as luck would have it, we have a record of that particular license plate in-state. The vehicle was impounded after it was found parked illegally near the Ben Franklin Bridge. The owner of the vehicle was involuntarily hospitalized after trying to jump off the bridge.”</p><p>“So then…” So then what? They broke out of the hospital and kidnapped Bucky? That didn’t make any sense.</p><p>“It stands to reason that someone else with access to impounded vehicles could have used it. Does Bucky have a cell phone? We can use E911 systems to trace its location as long as it’s on.”</p><p>“Yeah, he does. You need the number, right?” Steve’s head was spinning, his heart fluttering in his chest. It was better to know than not know, but… but he didn’t particularly want to find Bucky like <em> that</em>. Still, he gave over Bucky’s number, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “Do you think he… I mean…”</p><p>“It’s not my place to speculate on that, Steve. Let me make the E911 trace and see where that goes. Sam will walk you out, we’ll be in touch if anything comes up.” She smiled briefly, her eyes darting to the papers in front of her. “Thank you for coming forward, Steve. I know not everyone trusts the police, but it’d do more harm than good to withhold your report.” She stood, shaking his hand quickly and leaving the room.</p><p>Sam was back after a moment, walked him out of the small room. They stopped in the front lobby, Sam’s face serious as he looked around.</p><p>“Steve… if anything comes up, call me directly, okay? There’s…” He bit his lip, shaking his head and just clapping Steve on the shoulder. “We’re gonna find Bucky for you. Promise.”</p><p>“Thanks, Sam. I… I’ll be in touch.”</p><p>The long night and long day were catching up with him. Steve checked his phone one more time before shoving it in his pocket and walking home. He’d sleep for a few hours, as well as he could without Bucky there beside him. Then he’d go out and look around himself.</p><p>Except Bucky would be back well before then, would stumble home smelling like booze and cheap perfume, curl into bed around Steve and make promises of how much better their lives were gonna be one day.</p><p>He had to.</p>
<hr/><p>Brock looked like hell warmed over and Natalie wondered briefly if he would listen should she tell him to just go home. A conspicuous number of people had arranged for late shifts or days off on this particular Sunday and it didn’t take much of an ear to the ground to know why. Apparently for those who were ‘in,’ the mayor threw himself a hell of a birthday party. The overgrown stubble and dark circles under Brock’s eyes confirmed what she’d known for weeks: he was in that circle.</p><p>“Late night?” She asked as she walked into their tiny office, sitting down and putting Steve Rogers' report on one corner of her desk.</p><p>“Something like that.” He rubbed his eyes, gaze darting to the file before moving back to her. “Everything okay here?”</p><p>“Had some follow-up on one of the assault cases from last week. A witness came forward about what happened at the party.” The lie fell easily from her lips, her attention moving to her computer screen.</p><p>“Huh.” Brock took another drink of coffee, dropping the subject.</p><p>They worked in silence for a time, only the occasional clack of keyboards in the room. Natalie was finally pulled away from her work as her phone rang, putting it to her ear and standing. “Rushman.”</p><p>She walked out of the room, pacing down the hallway as she listened.</p><p>“Okay so I did some digging from everything you've given me and I’m not <em> saying </em> that Rumlow’s a serial killer, but I <em> am </em> giving my computers significant glances and laughing incessantly. So get this, right? He goes looking up impounded vehicles Friday afternoon, finds one that matches New York plates 34758 MA. Saturday afternoon, his credentials check it out of the impound lot as needing to be moved for evidentiary reasons. <em> Also </em> Saturday afternoon, his credit card pings at a cheap motel on the south side of town. So maybe he’s paying for legitimate business and gets thrills using a dead guy’s car to pick it up, or doesn’t want the fact that he’s picking up hookers tied to him, who knows. <em> Except </em> the cell phone you gave me to trace? It’s been pinging off a tower within two miles of that cheap motel on the south side for hours now. I can’t get a closer trace to confirm, but what an odd coincidence. So either your partner picked up a male escort and took him to a hotel and said escort has just decided that despite checkout having come and gone he just won’t leave, or…”</p><p>Natalie exhaled slowly, glancing to either side. “Jesus, Tony, that’s still a hell of an accusation to make.” Wolcott had been picked up by an impounded car and despite her direct request, she'd never seen the footage from that night. Was it impossible that even with James Houston on camera driving the car out, he was doing it under the request of an officer? No. It wasn't impossible. The MO lined up too well with what they knew about the last murder.</p><p>“I backtraced the location data on the cell phone, it’s been hitting that tower since at least two in the morning. The trace doesn’t go any further back. <em> However</em>, given the frequency of the hits I’d say it’s extremely unlikely that the phone is being used at the moment. Most phones will give a location update whenever you turn the screen on, it’s how stuff like weather apps update so frequently. Otherwise they only hit every one to four hours, depending on your battery settings. The phone has hit off the same tower every hour on the hour for the last twelve, at least. Now, am I a genius or am I a genius?”</p><p>“You’re a genius, but it still doesn’t prove murder. It doesn’t even prove that Bucky’s there, just that his phone is. I’ll send someone out to take a look, at least. What room did Rumlow rent?” Dammit, she should have brought that file with her. Natalie turned, making her way back to the office. She wasn’t too worried about facing Brock, she could keep a neutral face in almost any situation. The motel room <em>didn't</em> line up--Wolcott had been found in the street and what little she'd dug up on the previous four was that all of them had been found in alleys by morning. Cheap motel rooms didn't seem to be the murderer's style.</p><p>“Room 57 at the Riverside Motel off of I-75.”</p><p>“Got it, I’ll send someone out to--” She stopped in the doorway, staring around the office. “Tony, I need you to run another trace. Right now.”</p><p>“Whoa, okay, what’s up?”</p><p>Natalie swallowed hard, looking at the spill of papers across her desk, across Brock’s. His jacket was still there, maybe she was losing it, but her gut said otherwise. Forcing herself to stay calm, she gave him Brock’s number. “Rumlow took off and it looks like he was looking through my files before he left.”</p><p>“He either left his phone behind or hasn’t gotten far. Check his desk, he’s got location turned on and it’s pinpointing him inside the building. Stationary.”</p><p>She rifled across Brock’s desk, grabbing his coat and shaking it, cursing under her breath as his phone fell from his jacket pocket. “Anything on his computer?”</p><p>“Nothing but official reports and a couple of internet searches for hangover cures.”</p><p>Her gaze moved to her own desk, the spill of papers. The file she'd started while interviewing Steve Rogers was open, her notes haphazard around it. Quickly she looked through them, chewing her lip. “Steve’s contact page is gone. Rumlow might be going after him.”</p><p>“I can find Steve if you have his number, Nat.”</p><p>She didn’t, it was in the file, no need to memorize it or put it in her own phone. But… “Hang on, I--”</p><p>The shrill of the office line almost made her drop her phone, eyes darting to the door. It wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong, but being in the precinct suddenly felt like she was walking a <em> very </em> fine line. A trapeze rope she couldn’t even see. “I’ll call you back.” She hung up on Tony’s protests, grabbing the office line as it started to ring again. “Rushman.”</p><p>“Detective Rushman, this is Maria Hill. I have someone that you need to get in touch with about Christina Ann Wolcott and the link between her murder and at least four others.” The woman on the phone rushed the words out, before taking a deep breath. “And possibly some insights into just the kind of place you’re working.”</p><p>Natasha dropped into her chair, grabbing a notebook. “Tell me everything.”</p><p>Even as she took down what Maria Hill told her, started looking for this source that Hill had, she was going over the few people in the precinct that she thought she could trust. No one except Fury was very helpful, and she knew his hands were mostly tied by bureaucracy, except… If she was very, very lucky, there was Sam Wilson, who had come to her to help Steve Rogers file his missing persons report. He had to have made that choice for a reason.</p>
<hr/><p>He wouldn’t call it panic. Nearly the opposite, an eerie sort of calm descended over Brock as he made his way out of the office, the folded up paper from Rushman’s report in his hand. It was like going into an area of known enemy fire. If he kept his head, he’d make it out. He just had to focus on the steps he needed to take.</p><p>Jack was in, going over duty rosters for the upcoming month. Brock knocked at the edge of his door before letting himself in, shutting the door behind him. “Need your cell phone.”</p><p>“Something wrong with yours?”</p><p>“Think I left it somewhere.” He took the offered phone, slipping it into his pants pocket. Jack Rollins was a good enough guy, rough around the edges and smart enough to watch his own back, but… “That the schedule for next month?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Give yourself some time off. You deserve a break. Maybe take a couple weeks up in the mountains, or go back home. Something out of Philly.”</p><p>Jack frowned up at him, slowly looking back down at the schedule. “You thinking of taking some time off?”</p><p>“If I can get ahead of my caseload, yeah.”</p><p>That was all Brock could give him, and he was the only one. Whatever Rushman was really there for, it was going to come down on all of them. There was more than enough damning evidence in his hand already, but he could take care of that. Jack didn't know about his stress relief, didn't need to. If he was out of town when the house of cards crumbled--</p><p>No. Focus. One step at a time. Jack was capable of looking after himself. Steve Rogers, that was his next problem. What did he know, how did he know Rushman, how was he connected to James Barnes? Time was moving at double speed and had been since Petrovna had dropped the two bombshells on him. He could still get ahead of this, though. She had too much to lose to go ratting him out to the police. Barnes wouldn't remember it. Whatever Steve Rogers knew, that was what he had to figure out. Had to clean up.</p><p><em>Focus,</em> he told himself again.</p><p>Brock slipped out of the precinct by the back door, only stopping long enough to get the keys for an unmarked squad car from Burke. “I didn’t sign this out,” he whispered, tucking the keys into his pocket next to Jack’s phone. “You know what I mean?”</p><p>“You bet, Detective.”</p><p>He’d run. All the way to California, if that was what it took. To Mexico, to South America, to some shitty little country that didn’t have an extradition treaty. They’d never find him. He could start a new life. There was just one piece of trouble to take care of first.</p><p>
  <em>Focus.</em>
</p><p>Brock plugged Jack’s cell phone into the charger in the car, setting it on the mount attached to the dash. He dialed as he drove away from the precinct, glancing at the number listed on the report sheet.</p><p>“Hello?” A sleepy voice answered eventually. Brock leaned back as a black and white cruised by, but he recognized that one--Martinez. He was still fine.</p><p>“Hello, is this Steven Rogers?”</p><p>“Yeah… who’s this?” A little more aware, a little suspicious.</p><p>Brock put on his nice voice. “This is Detective Rumlow, with the Philadelphia Police Department. You spoke to my partner, Detective Rushman, earlier today about a missing person?”</p><p>“Yeah… did you find him?”</p><p>“Not yet, I’m afraid, but we’re out looking.” Not that they’d think to look for him at Pierce’s place. “I need to do some follow-up on the report, a few things that didn’t get covered in your first interview.” He laughed, signalling and turning down Steve’s street. “Hate to make you come all the way back to the precinct, so maybe we can meet somewhere a little closer to you?”</p><p>“Sam said…” Brock waited, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Eventually, Steve let out a breath. “Okay, yeah. There’s a diner not far from where I live that I can meet you at. It’s called 51st and Rose, but it’s actually on--” Steve rattled off an intersection and Brock glanced from the street signs to the little cafe on the corner. Well, that was easy. “I can be there in twenty minutes, if that works for you?”</p><p>“Sounds great to me. I’ll meet you outside.” He hung up, glanced at his watch, and circled the block before driving away. After a few minutes, he parked near a bus stop, unhooked Jack’s phone from the dashboard, and exited the car. There was a little twinge of guilt as he smashed the phone under his shoe, but not much. Jack could always get a new phone. He dumped the pieces into the trash before heading back to the diner.</p><p>Getting out of the precinct without raising the alarm had been easy. The tricky part was what he had to do now. Brock leaned against the side of the car outside of 51st and Rose, watching people come and go. He had no idea what this guy looked like, so he’d have to wait for Steve Rogers to approach him. Which meant keeping his badge visible, being identifiable, for a little longer.</p><p><em>Focus,</em> he thought, trying to keep his breathing steady. He was so close to freedom, he wouldn't mess it up now.</p><p>Almost exactly twenty minutes after he’d hung up, a slight blond shuffled down the street from a nearby apartment building. He looked up as he got closer to the diner, eyes scanning before stopping on Brock. The kid tilted his head, moving closer slowly, guarded. “Detective Rumlow?”</p><p>“Yeah. Steve Rogers?”</p><p>“Yeah. So, uh, what else do I have to do? They said I was all set earlier.”</p><p>“It’s nothing major, just a little bit of paperwork for formality. I’ve got it in the car, we can do it right there.” He nodded to the passenger seat of the vehicle, opening the door. “Normally it’d be taken care of on arrival, but I guess it got overlooked. No big deal.”</p><p>Steve took a seat and Brock fought down a grin as he shut the door. He walked around, getting behind the wheel and turning to look at him closely. Short, thin, looking tired and confused and it was definitely an act. Just like Rushman. Was he her partner? Her contact? Unlucky for Steve Rogers if he was. Without another word, Brock started the car, pulling away from the diner.</p><p>“Hey, what--what are you doing?!”</p><p>“Shut up and keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t try anything stupid, kid.”</p><p>He looked ready to do just that, so Brock grabbed the gun from the holster under his shoulder, angling it on his lap to point at Steve. “Don’t make me turn you into a mess.”</p><p>“What the hell kind of cop are you?” His words were incredulous, but he carefully folded his hands into his lap.</p><p>Brock kept the gun out, glancing in the rearview as he pulled onto a main road. He had to get somewhere that he could take care of this. Crossing out of the jurisdiction was no good. Pierce might still be able to salvage something from this clusterfuck, if they could keep it under wraps. “How’d you make me, huh? You an FBI agent too? Or are you one of Petrovna’s playthings?”</p><p>“Who… FBI? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Sure you fuckin’ don’t. Rushman’s been lying since she showed up, what are you, one of her contacts? Doesn’t matter, I’ll disappear before they can put me away for murdering those whores.”</p><p>Steve swallowed audibly. “Murdering… You’re the one the papers were talking about? Jesus Christ…”</p><p>His eye twitched, gaze darting over to the scrawny blond in his passenger seat. “Don’t fuckin’ play dumb with me. You show up the night after I pick up James Barnes saying that he didn’t come back, what, was he a set up, too?”</p><p>“<em>You </em> picked up Bucky last night?!”</p><p>There was something in those eyes, something too wide and disbelieving. Brock nearly slammed on the brakes, his mind racing. Was he wrong? If Steve Rogers <em> didn’t </em> know, then he’d just fucking admitted to--he turned the car sharply left, pulling into a parking lot and getting in a space. Stupid kid hadn’t put on his seatbelt, leaned hard into the door with a little grunt of pain.</p><p>Brock turned, his eyes narrowed, and pressed the gun to Steve’s forehead. “Tell me what you know.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter-specific tags: Discussed Murder, Discussed Sex Trafficking, Gun Violence, Kidnapping</p><p><b>Major Warning:</b> Major Character Death</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Looking in from the outside, no one would see the very quiet panic growing in the precinct. It started with Charlie Tolvey, shoving back from his desk suddenly and walking quickly and silently out of the room. A minute later Martinez called in looking for him, but hung up when Sam answered.</p><p>Things sort of snowballed after that.</p><p>Detective Rushman passed by his duty desk, dropping a scrap of paper as she went like they were in high school again. She kept moving, stopping at Burke’s desk to talk to him, and Sam snagged the note and carefully unfolded it.</p><p>
  <em> Fury’s office. Now. </em>
</p><p>He crumpled the paper and put it in his pocket, glancing at his computer monitor and then his watch before standing. He leaned over the desk, switching both his and Tolvey’s personal phone lines to bounce to the switchboard before leaving the room.</p><p>Fury’s office door was shut tight, low voices from within. Sam swallowed down whatever expectations of this meeting he had, knocking lightly and opening the door when he was called in. There was Fury, sitting behind his desk and looking absolutely pissed the hell off. There was Rushman, looking equally annoyed. Also in the room was a blonde woman he vaguely recognized, though he couldn’t quite place her.</p><p>“Good of you to join us, Officer Wilson.” Fury nodded shortly for him to close the door, sitting back and exhaling slowly. “There anyone else?”</p><p>“Cameron Klein from IAD is good, but pulling IAD in here right under Sitwell’s nose is going to raise too many eyebrows. They already know something is going on, but I don’t think they know what.” Rushman shrugged, turning to him. “I guess I should properly introduce myself. I’m Agent Natasha Romanoff, FBI.” She held out her hand and Sam shook it, feeling numb.</p><p>“Undercover Specialist Sharon Carter, Pennsylvania State Police,” the blonde woman added, also shaking his hand.</p><p>Sam turned to Fury, his eyebrows raised. “So are you actually with the CIA?”</p><p>The joke definitely didn’t land with the chief. “Not anymore. Romanoff, do you want to catch everyone up on this?”</p><p>“No time like the present.” She picked up a thick file from Fury’s desk, thumbing it open. “I was called in undercover to look into corruption in the department, see how deep it ran and how high it went. The answer to which seems to be <em> very, </em> from what I’ve gathered. Almost as soon as I was assigned to work with Detective Brock Rumlow, we were handling the murder of a prostitute.”</p><p>“Christina Ann Wolcott,” Sharon cut in. “We’ll get to her in a minute.”</p><p>“I put a tracker that one of our techs back at Quantico programmed onto Rumlow’s computer and started a background dive. It became obvious fairly quickly that while he gave the front of a good cop, not everything about him was on the upright. This past Friday, he spent an extraordinary amount of time searching impound records, then booked himself a room Saturday night at a cheap motel. Saturday night also happened to be the birthday celebration of the city’s mayor, which sources tell me has an extensive and very illicit afterparty. We know that Rumlow picked up a prostitute, James Barnes, Saturday night. We know that Barnes’ cell phone was traced to within a few miles of the hotel and has been there for several hours. We also know that Barnes’ roommate, Steve Rogers, came in to report him missing this morning. And now we know that Rumlow knows these things and is in the wind. His phone and his personal vehicle are here, but there’s an undercover vehicle currently unaccounted for and interestingly enough, Officer Burke has no idea who signed it out despite being in charge of the motor pool today. So far, this points to a lot of coincidence, except…” She nodded to Sharon.</p><p>“Except in March, Pennsylvania State Police tapped me for an undercover job, looking into a series of unsolved murders. Three women since late December, two known sex workers and one suspected of being a victim of sex trafficking. No one was saying serial killer, but the signatures were pointing to something that would continue unless there was interference. Interference that our contacts at the FBI, who had also noticed the pattern, had been denied.”</p><p>Sam felt his eyebrows climbing, looking back to Fury. The man spread his hands, face serious. “No, I wasn’t the one telling them not to interfere. Wipe that look off your face.”</p><p>He’d had drill sergeants screaming in his face be less intimidating. “Sir.”</p><p>“I was living with Christina Ann Wolcott when the fourth murder happened. Same signature, similar timeline. This killer wasn’t going on a spree, but every three to five weeks there’d be another body. Late December, early February, mid March. The fourth one was in mid April, and then in early May I got the kind of break we don’t want. Chrissy was found murdered, same signature as the others.”</p><p>“Post-mortem assault and ligature strangulation. My ‘first’ scene like that,” Natasha added, shaking her head. “How he could act that way…”</p><p>“Wait, wait,” Sam cut in, holding up his hands. “You’re saying that <em> Rumlow </em> killed her?”</p><p>“I’m saying that things lined up awful well for her death to not be connected to any others and he did the majority of the work that solidified that. I'm saying that the evidence pointing to the supposed killer was handled almost exclusively by him. I’m saying that the article linking her death to the others was redacted as of this morning. And I’m saying that I received a phone call from the anonymous source that wrote that article, Maria Hill, instructing me to get in touch with Kate Carter. I found her records from when she came in after Wolcott's murder and it didn't take much more than a phone call to know that we were attacking the same problem from different angles." She closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. "And I'm saying that prior to being hired by the Philly PD, Rumlow was dishonorably discharged from the military for assaulting his ex-girlfriend. He attempted to strangle her with a belt. When you compile everything, there are certain conclusions that have to be drawn.”</p><p>Sam took a few deep breaths, turning the information around in his head. He was a cop, he was trained to look at things from particular angles… And from this angle, there was too much stacked against Rumlow. “Okay, so what next?”</p><p>“Do you have Steve Rogers’ contact information? Rumlow took his detail sheet from the report earlier. We need to account for his safety first.”</p><p>“Yeah, I can call him--”</p><p>“Don’t call him,” Natasha cut him off, pulling out her phone. “Just give me his number, I’ll get our tech to location trace. If he’s got his GPS data on, we’ll be able to track him. Even without that, we can center in within a few miles.”</p><p>Sam nodded, pulling up his recent calls and reading out Steve’s number. Natasha was quiet for a moment, before she sighed.</p><p>“Okay, Tony, I’m putting you on speaker but we’re in mixed company, so <em> behave</em>.”</p><p>A low beep, before a voice came from the phone. “Or what, you’ll spank me? That’s a <em> Criminal Minds </em> reference, guys. Anyways, so lucky for you, looks like one Steve Rogers keeps his location tracking on. Unlucky, he’s on the move and fast. Not gonna lie, he’s sort of jumping from place to place because however he’s traveling, it’s generating quite a bit of interference.”</p><p>“Train?” Sam asked, already prepared to go grab a schedule.</p><p>“No, he’s definitely on surface streets. Let’s see, my good buddy google maps says… yep, he’s downtown. Tall buildings and heavy cell traffic are interfering.”</p><p>Natasha nodded, already moving to the door. “Sam, with me. Let’s go find him. Sharon--”</p><p>“I’ll contact state police, get them to set up roadblocks. No offence, Chief, but we can’t trust anyone in the city to do the right thing.”</p><p>Fury nodded once, pushing himself back from his desk slowly. “I think I can handle my precinct, at least. There are a few places I’ve had my eye on.”</p><p>Tolvey was back when Sam passed through the duty room, looking pale and shaky. Even an hour ago, Sam would have at least <em> tried </em> to ask what was wrong. Now he just grabbed the keys to their black and white and met Natasha out back.</p><p>Time to show this city what a good cop looked like.</p>
<hr/><p>Steve ran through a quick mental assessment of his situation, counting all the ways it was looking increasingly dire.</p><p>He’d been essentially kidnapped by a cop (or a psychopath posing as one, the jury was sort of out): bad.</p><p>No one else probably knew where he was: bad.</p><p>The cop-slash-psychopath had killed multiple prostitutes before: unsettling and also bad.</p><p>The cop-slash-psychopath had something to do with Bucky’s disappearance: probably bad?</p><p>Oh also there was a gun pointed at him and he couldn’t exactly dive out of the car and run screaming for help. It seemed pointless to try to draw conclusions from those facts.</p><p>“Okay… okay…” Steve muttered to himself, trying to keep his breathing steady as Rumlow drove. His options for self help were extremely limited at the moment. Trying to signal for help seemed way more likely to get his brains splattered on the window.</p><p>How good was cell phone tracking? Did anyone even know Rumlow had him? He’d managed to dump his phone from his pocket onto the interior door pocket after that sharp left turn, was pretty sure his location settings were on after googling directions to the precinct earlier. Assuming anyone knew he was missing, would that be enough for them to find him? God, he hoped so.</p><p>He glanced at Rumlow, fighting the urge to twist his hands in his lap. Nothing to set the guy off. “Where are we going?”</p><p>Having a gun in his face had been bad, having the anger directed at him behind the gun had been worse, but this… this was terrifying. Steve’s heart was jackhammering in his chest, making his breathing shaky. After he’d convinced Rumlow that he didn’t know anything, the man had seemed to flip a mental switch, had started driving in silence, not even looking in Steve’s direction. They’d left the parking lot five minutes ago, were seemingly zigzagging aimlessly through downtown. </p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>Well, that was fair. Steve leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. He licked his lips, thought about pressing his luck and begging for his life, and decided that if he was going to die, it wasn’t going to be like that. Which didn’t leave much else except sitting quietly and waiting for Rumlow to kill him.</p><p>Fun.</p><p>Steve cracked one eye open, glancing over at him before tracking their surroundings. Still downtown, still enclosed by tall buildings. He could see pedestrians on the sidewalks, taking pictures of historical landmarks, completely unaware of the life or death situation happening feet away from them.</p><p>
  <em> “Hey Buck, come on, let’s go see the founding of our nation or something.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Steve just because we’re in Philly doesn’t mean we have to do the tourist things.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Don’t even tell me you don’t want to go to the Ben Franklin museum and find out if they mention that he was once invited to join a satanic cult.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I hate that you know that, punk. Fine. Let’s go.” </em>
</p><p>He swallowed, turning his head out the window, forcing down the emotion that the memories pulled up. He wouldn’t cry, not here and not now. “Is he okay, at least? I mean… you didn’t…”</p><p>Rumlow grunted, taking a sudden right turn. Steve leaned with it, his seat belt digging into his shoulder. “I left him at the party, like I was instructed to. What Pierce or anyone else did, I don’t ask. Someone will probably get him a cab back to the motel to get his stuff, assuming he remembers where I brought him.”</p><p>Okay, the guy was talking. That was… good? Steve sucked in a breath, pushing his luck as they made a left. Out of the historic district, into more industrial parts of town. Box trucks passed them on the other side of the road, warehouses and factories lining the streets. “So… why’d you do it? I mean… to the others?”</p><p>His gaze twitched from one side of the road to the other, a low curse leaving his lips. “Because I fucking <em> could</em>, that’s why. If I learned nothin’ else from how they staged up Morrison’s death, it was that in Philly, with the right connections, you can do <em> anything</em>. And…” Another sharp, sudden turn, the blatt of a horn behind them. Steve grunted as he nearly fell into Rumlow. “And I didn’t like the way she was lookin’ at me, at the Christmas party. Like she thought she could save me from somethin’ worse.”</p><p>He’d gone quieter, almost introspective, his eyes ahead. The gun was loose in his hand, pointed more towards the back seat than his passenger. Steve forced himself to stay calm, his eyes darting to the door. It was locked, could he rely on distraction to get it unlocked and opened? Traffic was getting heavier around them, they’d had to slow down considerably.</p><p>“What really happened to Morrison?” There’d been some genuine emotion in Rumlow’s voice when he’d said the name, Steve would bet his life on it. <em> Was </em> betting his life on it.</p><p>Rumlow laughed, short and bitter, reached up with his gun hand to wipe his brow and Steve grabbed the door handle with one hand and the lock with the other.</p><p>
  <em>He busted the door open and rolled out of the car, to the screech of brakes and cursing of his captor and would-be murderer. There was another cop right there, smiling big and friendly like the posters in grade school of Officer Friendly. Officer Friendly stepped right up and began putting Rumlow in handcuffs faster than a blink--</em>
</p><p>“Hands off the fuckin’ door, kid.” Cold metal against his temple and Steve exhaled slowly, moving his hands back to his lap. Back into his shitty reality, then.</p><p>“Can’t blame a guy for trying, okay? I won’t again, I swear.”</p><p>“Yeah, you’re not gonna live long enough to try. Here’s good.” One final turn, the car rolling slowly into a weedy vacant lot. There were factory buildings on either side, their bricks dull red and graffitied, their windows busted by long ago kids throwing long ago rocks. Steve shuddered hard, his gaze resolutely forward. He wasn’t going to beg for his life.</p><p>The gun settled against the side of his head and he closed his eyes, firmly pushing out every thought that bad kung fu movies had put into his brain. He didn’t know much about guns, but he knew the golden gun rule: don’t aim at anything without the intent to kill. He’d been on borrowed time.</p><p>Steve wondered briefly if it’d hurt or if it’d be over too fast and then--</p><p>Then it was over.</p><p>Huh, purgatory had the Tetris music, just like his ringtone for when Bucky called.</p><p>“What the fuck is that?”</p><p>Oh, goddammit, purgatory also had Rumlow, the cop-slash-psychopath. Go figure.</p><p>A warm body pressed against him and Steve kept his eyes shut, all too aware that he wasn’t actually dead. There was a thud and a cuss, before a hand fisted in his hair, making him cry out and involuntarily open his eyes.</p><p>“You being fuckin’ cute with me?!” His cell phone was in Rumlow’s hand, buzzing with Bucky’s name and picture across the front. Steve breathed a sigh of relief despite his own mortal danger, the sound turning into a yelp as he was dragged by the hair from the car. “Fuck, <em> fuck</em>,” Rumlow was half-shouting, shoving Steve away from the car and towards the left, towards one of the busted up buildings. He tossed Steve’s phone and the screen cracked, spiderwebbing and glinting the afternoon sun back at them.</p><p>There were sirens not too far off, but they cut off abruptly. Rumlow was still spitting cusses, dragging Steve into the warehouse and wrapping an arm around his throat as he moved to the middle of the large empty space, head jerking so his chin hit the back of Steve’s head as he looked around.</p><p>“Good news for you, kid, now you’re my ticket outta here.”</p><p>Steve couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Dying in silent dignity was overrated, if he was going to die, his last words were going to be indignant and irritated. “I’m thrilled to be upgraded to bargaining chip. Yippee.”</p>
<hr/><p>Even Tony’s regular banter had gone quiet save updates to the location of Steve’s phone. As if she needed a sign that things were going bad.</p><p>After zigzagging through downtown, signal popping in and out, it’d gotten stronger. Steve was headed to a more industrial part of town, factories and warehouses. More isolated.</p><p>Why had Rumlow taken him? What was there to gain? If he’d just run, he could have been halfway out of the state by now.</p><p>Then again, they were making an awfully sure assumption that Rumlow <em> had </em> taken him. If it turned out that Steve was just on a joyride…</p><p>“Hey, guys? He’s stopped.” Tony sighed over the phone line. “Vacant lot, buildings to either side. Looks like factories or warehouses. And he just got an incoming call from Barnes’ number.”</p><p>“Kill the sirens,” Natasha said, her spine growing tense. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. They’d need the element of surprise.</p><p>Sam flipped their sirens off, slowing the cruiser down and signalling down the side road. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his eyes forward. “Steve, you stubborn little shit, you better be okay.”</p><p>“Call went to voicemail,” Tony noted helpfully. “Barnes’ location also just updated to GPS instead of cell tower. He’s at the motel.”</p><p>"Any way to find out if he's with someone?" Clint was supposed to be at that party, digging into his own caseload. Doctor Petrovna, her sex trafficking, her illegal experimentation. Arguably unrelated to the corruption and serial murders. Arguably. For five murders to have similar signatures and no up front FBI involvement, Natasha was willing to bet that Pierce had something to do with covering them up. If Clint had seen Bucky at the party, it would only help their case more.</p><p>"Short of calling him and asking like a stalker in a horror movie? '<em>Are you alone right now?</em>' Not really."</p><p>"Hey, you're the tech wizard, I was just--"</p><p>"Wizard? <em>Wizard</em>? I will have you know--"</p><p>Their cruiser rolled up to the lot slowly, turning in past the broken security fence. A building on either side, warehouses from the look of them, decorated with graffiti and broken windows. Natasha hung up on Tony, still in the middle of a rant about how technology wasn't magic, and undid her seatbelt, already reaching for the door handle with one hand and her gun with the other. There was a car parked in the middle of the lot, the driver side door open.</p><p>Behind the wheel, Sam parked and undid his own seatbelt, grabbing his door handle. “I’m moving on your mark.”</p><p>“No movement inside vehicle. Cover me, I’ll move up closer.”</p><p>They opened the doors, staying behind them and waiting for a beat. Slowly, with Sam watching her back, Natasha made her way forward to the other car. She glanced at the latched trunk, the back seat, then finally let her gun lead her into the open driver’s side door. Nothing.</p><p>“It’s clear!” She shouted back to Sam, looking around as he moved up to join her. “This is an undercover car, though. I bet it’s the one Burke mysteriously didn’t know was signed out.”</p><p>Sam nodded, stepping past her and crouching down, pointing to a weedy crack in the pavement. “Cell phone.” As he spoke it lit up, and he leaned a little closer before standing. “Gotta be Steve’s, that was a text from Bucky saying he was on his way home.”</p><p>Natasha looked between the buildings, chewing her lip. Clint was going to kill her if she was reckless and got herself killed. She could almost hear his admonishment in her head, like he didn’t throw himself headfirst into danger every chance he got. “Go back to the car, radio the state police for backup.”</p><p>“That makes it sound like you’re not also going to wait for backup.”</p><p>“We don’t know if there’s time.”</p><p>Sam looked over his shoulder, exhaling slowly. When he turned back to her, his eyes were serious. “We’ll cover more ground if we both go looking. I’ve done solo infiltration before.”</p><p>“This isn’t a training exercise, Sam.”</p><p>“Neither was Bakhmala, with respect.”</p><p>She couldn’t argue with that. She really did attract a certain kind of guy. “You take the east, I’ll take the west. Engage only if absolutely necessary, our priority is hostage rescue.”</p><p>“Ma’am.”</p><p>They split, footsteps crunching across gravel towards their respective buildings. Natasha circled hers slowly, careful of the broken windows, looking for a point of entry. Think like a criminal, think like someone who has a gun to a person’s head and needs to keep control of them. If only <em> that </em> wasn’t so easy.</p><p>She tried doors, finding each one locked, most with padlocks and chains on the outside. Unlikely candidates, Rumlow would want a quick entry and at most possibly shut the door behind him. Finally, she slipped her gun into its holster, hoisting herself up to look in one of the broken windows.</p><p>Completely empty, undisturbed dust on the floors. It was possible that there were smaller rooms along one of the walls, former offices and bathrooms, but for the most part the warehouse seemed vacant. She lowered herself down, wishing for a moment that she’d thought to grab the radios out of the squad car.</p><p>Until a gunshot rang out, echoing from the other building, and she had her answer. Sam had found Rumlow.</p><p>Natasha ran, only slowing as she approached the warehouse. She circled it carefully, identified point of entry and bypassed it. There was a fire escape not too far away from the door, its rusted ladder hanging roughly seven feet above the ground, a broken window at the landing. If Rumlow was watching the door, he wouldn’t expect her through the window.</p><p>She took a step back, focusing her breathing, before taking two running steps forward and jumping. Her hands caught the bottom rung, the ladder shifting in her grip, grit falling down as she held on. Moving before her muscles could feel the strain, she hauled herself up.</p><p>She took only a moment once on the rusted landing, pounding out the strain in her biceps, sending up silent thanks that she’d worn a t-shirt rather than a button up. Easier to maneuver in. Moving to the window, Natasha surveyed the scene as quickly as she could.</p><p>Crates and boxes scattered around, Rumlow in the middle of the room with his gun pressed to Steve’s temple, arm around the skinny blond’s throat. She glanced down, saw Sam crouched behind a crate just inside the door, and once again cursed the lack of radio.</p><p>“This doesn’t have to end this way, Rumlow!” Sam shouted from below her, his head peeking up for only a moment. “Just let him go, we can talk this out!”</p><p>“Nothin’ left to talk about! You been a cop long enough to know how this ends.”</p><p>She hissed between her teeth, the closest she dared get to cursing out loud. There was going to be a body count, the question was how high it would get. Drawing her sidearm again, Natasha took careful aim at Rumlow and waited for her window.</p><p>“You ever done HNT before, Wilson? Step one, you’re supposed to de-escalate. So why don’t you run back to your squad car and tell your backup to back the hell <em> off </em> before things in here get bloody?”</p><p>“I go for the door, what stops you from shooting me? Put the gun away and I’ll call off the rest of the team.”</p><p>Rumlow laughed, turning the gun away from Steve’s temple. “You ain’t as hidden--”</p><p>Natasha took her shot, vaulting herself over the window ledge as soon as she pulled the trigger. Her ears were ringing, the thunderclap of her gunshot into the warehouse still echoing, but she could see what was happening below well enough.</p><p>Rumlow had stumbled back as her bullet hit his shoulder, dropped his gun, He’d let go of Steve to clap a hand on the injury. Sam was already moving forward below her, his priority on getting Steve out. Good cop.</p><p>She hurried down the stairs as Rumlow ducked around a corner into a smaller room, her gun leading her to the doorway. He wasn’t down for the count, not by a long shot, though no doubt that shoulder wound hurt like a son of a bitch.</p><p>Her shoes crunched through broken glass as she followed the trail of blood drops down a concrete hallway, eyes and ears alert. His gun was back in the main space, fingers crossed Sam would secure that once Steve was taken care of.</p><p>“Rumlow!”</p><p>“Ah, fuck!”</p><p>Natasha rounded another corner and there he was, sat on the dirty floor, shirt bloodied, left hand clapped over the spurting shoulder wound.</p><p>“You really fucked up my shooting arm, Rushman.” He laughed a little and she clocked the pallor of his skin, noted the amount of blood. Going into shock.</p><p>“Brock Rumlow, you’re under arrest for the attempted kidnapping of Steve Rogers, as well as suspicion of the murder of five individuals in the Philadelphia area. You have the right to remain silent.”</p><p>He raised his hand off his shoulder, waving lightly. “Yeah, I know the spiel. Silent, lawyer, fuckin’ public defender. Fuckin’... What’re you gonna do, shoot me?”</p><p>Her gun was still on him, she wasn’t stupid. Even if he seemed to have given up, she wasn’t moving until she had backup. “If I have to.”</p><p>“You know…” With an effort, he sat up a little straighter, looked past her for a moment. “When Morrison took early retirement at the end of his gun barrel, they had to make it look like gangbangers. Couldn’t have his service pistol hanging out, with recent use and all that. So they decided to give it to someone else.” His right arm twitched and she mentally cursed herself. Hand behind the back, she should have known better than to--</p><p>“I don’t think you fucked it up enough.”</p><p>The single gunshot was loud in the closed space, a thunderclap in a closet.</p><p>Slowly, carefully, Natasha lowered her gun as Rumlow’s hand opened, his bloodstained badge falling to the floor.</p><p>It’d ended with a body count, just like she’d thought.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Giving testimony on the stand was easier than giving his deposition. While the deposition had been in a conference room, sitting among lawyers and cops, being barraged with questions, the testimony… Well, the crowd was certainly larger, but among them was Steve. As long as he kept his eyes locked on the scrawny blond in the ill-fitted suit, he was fine.</p><p>Bucky had, against his own better judgement, worn his dress uniform. Someone on the prosecuting legal team had shelled out for it to be dry-cleaned, had convinced him that it would leave a much stronger impression to show up in full military honors. They’d even paid for a tailor to sew on his medals--Distinguished Service, Purple Heart, and Meritus Unit Commendation. Considering those had been gathering dust deep in the back of his closet since he’d gotten them, he was only a little surprised that Steve had been able to find them.</p><p>There were other familiar faces in the crowd, though he didn’t let himself linger on them too long, didn’t let himself get distracted from relaying the facts as he recalled them. The lawyers had been very clear before they’d made it to court, the only things he was allowed to talk about were things he expressly witnessed. Speculation had to be left to experts.</p><p>Now all he had to do was tell his story in front of this crowd. And then get barraged by the defense team on cross examination. <em> “As long as you stick to the facts, you’ll be fine.” </em> The lawyers that had prepped him seemed to have a very different definition of fine than he did.</p><p>“At which point you were led to a bedroom by Detective Brock Rumlow?”</p><p>Steve flinched in the galley and Bucky closed his fists tight. “Yes. I was escorted to a bedroom by Detective Rumlow. He spoke to another person--later identified to me as Doctor Roza Petrovna--briefly as she injected me with some sort of drug.”</p><p>“Do you know the nature of this drug?”</p><p>“Objection,” the defense called out before Bucky could open his mouth. “Speculation.”</p><p>“Sustained.” The judge nodded to the lawyer once more.</p><p>“I’ll rephrase. What physical effects did you notice from this drug?”</p><p>“Increased alertness to my surroundings and coherency in my thoughts.” He looked across the room briefly, before focusing his eyes back on Steve. More questions, more answers to give. </p><p>He could see Steve’s little frown, pieces coming together, parts of the story he hadn’t told. Waking up in a strange bed with a strange man had been bad enough, he didn’t want to relive the night before if he could help it. At least the guy in bed with him had been to the point.</p><p>
  <em> “My name’s Clint, we didn’t have sex last night. You want a lift somewhere?” </em>
</p><p>By the time he finished recounting his night--and morning, and early afternoon--handcuffed to the bed, audible murmuring had begun among the watching crowd, among the jurors. Bucky kept his eyes locked on Steve, watching the set of his mouth into a thin line.</p><p>“No further questions at this time, your honor.”</p><p>The judge nodded, glancing at her watch. “Thank you for your time, Sergeant Barnes, you’re free to leave the stand. We will resume tomorrow at eight in the morning for the defense cross examination. For now, court is recessed.”</p><p>Bucky didn’t quite run from the stand, but it was a close thing. He met Steve in the lobby, wrapped one arm around him and sighed. “Good god, get me out of here. I want to go put on sweatpants.”</p><p>“Are you going to be okay tomorrow?”</p><p>“I hope so. The lawyers warned me that the defense was probably going to hammer in on how drunk I was. Without scientific backing on Petrovna’s antitoxin, it’s basically just my word.” He groaned, rubbing a hand through his hair. Military short again, another thing the prosecution lawyers had insisted upon. “I hate being up there.”</p><p>“Could be worse, you could have to sit your bony ass on one of those hard galley benches.” Steve elbowed him lightly as they stepped outside, both of them shivering. Immediately, his nose turned red and he sniffed. “January thaw my ass. Let’s grab a cab home.”</p><p>“You want a cab, or you want a lift in something a lot classier?” A voice called out and both of them perked up.</p><p>“Sam!” Steve waved, tugging Bucky over and hugging the man standing by the curb. He wasn’t in uniform, but it probably wasn't the reason he hadn’t been allowed into the courtroom. In such a high profile case, lookie-loos were closely monitored. Even cops. Especially cops. “We don’t have to ride in the back seat, right?”</p><p>“Just one of you. Personally, I vote Bucky. He put his feet on the dash last time I let him up front.”</p><p>Steve feigned horror while Bucky snorted. “Had to shine my shoes somewhere, Wilson. The dashboard of your shitty Corolla was good enough. But whatever, let’s just get in the car before Steve freezes to death.” He climbed into the back seat, shoving papers aside as the other two got in the front. Immediately, his knees bumped up against the back of Steve’s seat.</p><p>“Hey, careful with those papers. It’s an early addition of tomorrow’s <em> Daily News</em>. Maria Hill is finally getting to put her name to this whole mess.” Sam glanced at him in the rearview before pulling away from the courthouse, merging in with afternoon traffic. “She’s been working her ass off to get the whole story together.”</p><p>“Yeah, you’d know a lot about her ass, wouldn’t you, Wilson?” Bucky snorted, picking up the article and beginning to read.</p><p>“She is a very nice, respectable, professional reporter and I <em> happen </em> to be the new press liaison who she <em> happened </em> to agree to meet for a nice dinner tomorrow night after <em> months </em> of me trying to decide if it’d be appropriate to ask. Her ass has nothing to do with it.”</p><p>“So what you’re saying is that Officer Wilson is a boobs man?” Steve piped up, all three of them devolving into laughter.</p><p>“What I’m saying is I’m into a person that knows what they want and how to get it. Beyond that, it’s really up to her if we have something to continue.”</p><p>Bucky let the ebb and flow of their conversation pass in front of him, his eyes on the paper. Until he’d taken the stand this morning, he’d been only an ‘anonymous source’ in the investigations. Rumlow’s case had already been tried, so to speak. Petrovna had been caught at the airport, attempting to pay her way through security and customs on fake documents. She’d been extradited to Russia, according to Clint, though he said it with a wink that made Bucky think of CIA black bag operations he’d read about in spy thrillers. And Pierce was currently sitting pretty on his city, hopefully sweating it out and sleeping fitfully as more and more information about his corruption and illegal practices came to light.</p><p>Natasha Romanoff called him a key witness for proving that everything--Rumlow’s murders, Petrovna’s sex trafficking and illegal human drug testing, Pierce’s general corruption--was tied together. He’d just be happy to get on with his life as normal as it could be. The sooner the better.</p><p>“Sam,” Steve’s voice, sharp and worried, pulled his attention off the article and Bucky looked to the front seat. “This isn’t the way to our place.”</p><p>“Hill tipped me off that the TV stations got your home address. Apparently they’ve never heard of witness privacy, or can’t take a hint with not being allowed to badger you outside the courtroom. So we’re taking a little detour until they get sick of waiting for you. She said that Coulson’s already working on them.” Sam flashed a grin. “You’re basically a celebrity, Bucky.”</p><p>“Great.” He sighed, propping his elbow up on the side of the car and staring out the window. “So, where are we hiding out this time?”</p><p>“My place, at least for a little while. It ain’t much, but the wifi’s fast and I got a nice Lebanese neighbor who always brings me leftovers.”</p><p>Better than a hotel. He’d been sequestered to a hotel room during his entire, days long deposition, unable to leave for anything thanks to the cop stationed outside. It’d felt more like being under arrest than any actual time he’d spent in handcuffs. Well, almost any time. He shuddered, eyes tracking to his wrist, for a moment seeing the bruises that had taken weeks to fade.</p><p>Steve reached back, his hand finding Bucky’s knee and squeezing, drawing his gaze upwards. Bucky met his eyes in the mirror, put on a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“Bullshit, but okay.”</p><p>When this was over, when they could start moving past that terrible weekend, maybe it would be time to leave Philadelphia. Go back to Brooklyn, maybe. Or find greener pastures somewhere else.</p><p>At least they had the option in front of them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading! &lt;3 And since you're here, loyal reader, allow me to offer you a little hint about what's coming next from me:</p><p>The fact that this story has a playlist is relevant to the plot of the story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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